


never let a friend fool you twice

by gisho



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Inspired by a Kinkmeme Prompt, Light Bondage, Light Sexual Roleplay, Nebulous future OT3verse, OT3 background, Slice of Life, Tarvek is a library geek, Trust Issues, urban planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-12 11:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gisho/pseuds/gisho
Summary: Gil tries to fix everything. Tarvek tries to found a major civic institution. Agatha tries to get Mechanicsburg running smoothly. Everybody tries to drink too much coffee.And in the middle of that, Gil and Tarvek work on trusting each other again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started for a kinkmeme prompt: "Gil and Tarvek learn along with Agatha, in any constellation between the three of them, how to open up and let their guards down. But this prompt focus specifically on these two. They have baggage because of their shared part, but the Paris arc seems to point at them getting to work things out..." It turned out to involve more of Tarvek's Adventures in Urban Planning than the prompt really needed, but what can one do?

\---

Gil isn't sleeping. This isn't unusual; the unusual thing is that he's trying. But Agatha's bed is too big without her in it - the Heterodynes never built anything small - and he wouldn't be making the attempt, except that Agatha found _out_ about his habit of just staying up for a few days when she was away and let him know her opinion, in no uncertain terms. 

Maybe his own bed? But he's never actually slept there, and right now it's covered in books which he would have to move. Possibly put away, which would be a good reason to - no. Not even if he understood the shelving system, which he doesn't. Tarvek had gone on a full-on mad rant about how counterintuitive it was and how they were going to have to reorganize the entire library with the Immortal Library classification scheme before students could be expected to use it, which was how they had found out Tarvek thought Mechanicsburg needed its own university, which Gil is going to needle him about until he inevitably gets his way and they've turned all the thorn hedge barracks into lab space and student housing. He's almost looking forward to it.

That's what he'll do, he'll go check on Tarvek. Sleeping alone can't possibly be as comfortable as he keeps telling them.

Tarvek's room is next door to Agatha's, which Gil would be ragingly jealous of if he wasn't, in practice, sharing with Agatha. The connecting door is locked, but Gil jiggles the handle until, little fanged face grinning, it lets him through. He's not surprised the electric lamp over Tarvek's desk is still on.

Nor, really, that Tarvek is slumped over the desk, hair spread out across a scree of papers. His breathing is soft and even, shoulders relaxed.There's no way he's still asleep. Gil makes sure his footsteps are loud enough to give him an excuse to wake up.

"I thought I locked that door," Tarvek declares, when Gil's hand is half a meter from his shoulder.

He lets his hand fall. "You did. It likes me."

"Hhmph. What are you doing here?" 

"Making sure you weren't doing _exactly this_ , come on, you _have_ a bed." And before Tarvek can protest, he grabs him under the arms and hauls him out of the chair. Tarvek yelps, of course, and flails about a bit, but not nearly enough to be more than a joke. And that still feels strange, being allowed to joke around like this, like they used to when they were young. He deposits Tarvek in a heap on the bed and kneels down to wrestle his shoes off. "Don't I have enough bad sleeping habits for all three of us?"

"Yes. For example, you're barging into my room at -" he cranes his neck to see the clock - "one-fifty, when you should be in bed."

"Fine, I'll get in bed." He drops onto the duvet next to Tarvek. The frame creaks alarmingly beneath their combined weight; it really wasn't built for two. One of his legs ends up thrown over Tarvek's hips, pinning him down. Gil props himself on one elbow and grins down at Tarvek. His mood is improving already.

"That wasn't really what I meant," Tarvek eventually offers weakly.

Gil doesn't want to get up, now he's here. Tarvek's presence is at least warm and familiar. But - "Alright," he mumbles, and tries to lever himself upright. "Do you want the lamp on or -"

 

He's interrupted by a grab at his elbow. "If it's that important to you, then stay. But I warn you, if you wake me up with your snoring I'll kick you out of bed and dump a jar of spider pheromone on your head."

"You have that?" 

"You'd never get it out of your hair," Tarvek informs him, and starts to unbutton his waistcoat.

So Gil turns the lamp down, and climbs under the covers with Tarvek in a bed that certainly isn't big enough for two tall grown men, and, as was the unspoken command, stays still, breathing slow and quietly. Tarvek, as ever, lies as still as an unwound doll. That's how they spend their first night in the same bed since they were children - unmoving, and only one of them asleep.

\--

The Sausage Factory is, despite the name, the best coffeehouse in Mechanicsburg - more so for having Agatha's improved coffee engine. A lesser place would have announced as much with a tasteful sign, to draw in tourists, but the ever-sensible Rinja prefers local custom.  
Tarvek goes there whenever he can spare the time. Being the Lady Heterodyne's consort apparently makes him an honorary Mechanicsburger, to the degree of being trusted to run a tab.

Gilgamesh is a less usual sight, and he slides into the booth across from Tarvek with the distinctly uncomfortable expression of an anthropologist who has been asked to be the guest of honor at a banquet. "Why are we here?"

"We're meeting the seneschal."

"Here, as opposed to the castle?"

"Well, yes," Tarvek says, just to be infuriating, and  
spins to greet the waitress. "Good morning! Do you still have the lemon-orange tartelettes? I'll have one, and one of the Experiment of the Day, and he'll have three butter scones. Coffee for both of us. And we're expecting Vanamonde Heliotrope." 

She smiles back. "I should hope so, that's his table. Coffee will be over in a minute, Your Majesty."

That makes Gilgamesh roll his eyes, it always does, even though it is the _correct_ form of adress and only proves that Mechanicsburgers are _polite_. Tarvek resists the childish urge to stick out his tounge, and settles for unrolling the elevation maps from the construction of the Great Hospital and studying them very intently while he insinuates his toes into the top of Gil's boot. That shuts him up very nicely until their coffee comes, and then he applies himself to the scones - Gil has the appetite of three men - until Vanamonde arrives with the rest of the maps. 

An hour later they've gone through a collective eight cups of coffee, and are entering a slump. The trouble is that Mechanicsburg is so very _built_. Buildings are reinhabited, empty spaces filled in, inconvenient corners tend to just vanish in a way very few towns can arrange. Not only can't they put all the university buildings together, they can't even get an administrative center and gathering hall together within sensible distance of the Castle.

"Not unless we build on the Greens. Or start moving houses out of the way." Vanamonde glares at the map as if he could open it up by sheer force of annoyance.

Tarvek frowns. "I don't think the Lady Heterodyne would like to put anyone out of their home."

"Oh, we wouldn't have to! Just, well, slide the Tumbles a few blocks away. It could be done, with preparation and a little scientific assistance."

"You would have to take down the old town wall," Tarvek points out.

"We could. We have a new town wall."

Gilgamesh coughs. "It wasn't built to the same standards," he points out. But he looks intruiged. 

Better standards, likely; despite the hurry his people had much better materials. Tarvek leans back and smirks slightly. "Pity about the decoration."

He must be learning; he doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead Gilgamesh offers, "Have you even asked Agatha if she wants a university?"

"She _needs_ one, Gilgamesh. She's drawn in some of the best minds in Europa, and that will only get worse, and not all of them can keep busy with government. You know how she deals with research proposals." 

They both wince at the memory, but Gilgamesh persists. "I don't think Agatha -"

"Let me put it like this: I want to get Mittelmind some grad students before he actually does convince Castle Heterodyne that it is neither true nor false."

Vanamonde, looking amused despite himself, offers, "It might just squash him flat."

"Perhaps, but that would upset Fraulein Snaug, and I do hate seeing ladies in distress."

Gilgamesh's smirk lasts while they debate the ideas of moving the Tumbles or of simply making an amorphous university, spread across the whole city as they can find or obtain buildings. They'll have to take it back to Agatha, of course. This is her city. But the idea of _not_ finding space has been slowly left behind, as Tarvek had expected.

On the way home - slower than they should be walking, maybe, but it's a nice day and nothing is on fire - he finds himself unduly distracted, thinking of what it would take to simply slide a whole neighborhood out of the way to make room. So much to disconnect and reconnect - steam lines and water lines, sewer pipes, electric wires - well, most towns don't have so many electric wires. And given Gilgamesh's ionic generator experiments, perhaps they don't need so many as they have. Still. A town is a living organism, and it needs its nerves and veins. Most people don't think about that.

"You're humming," Gilgamesh informs him. People swerve out of their way without slowing down; across the street an old woman is yelling about sausages. Their elbows are brushing together. 

Tarvek tells him, "I'm thinking. You should try it sometime."

"You're impossible." Gilgamesh grabs his hand, bruising-tight. "I should never let you on Castle Wulfenbach, you'll try to put in more secret passages. Or convince the captain to fly the whole fleet to Ceylon and overthrow the Peacock Queen. Or something."

He should protest, they're in public, but somehow Tarvek can't bring himself to. The touch is comforting. It's no secret that they're close. Let the shoppers smile and the tourists wonder; let the whole world know that wherever they go, they go together.

He should drink less coffee. It makes him maudlin.

\--

The next few weeks are absurd. A Spark breaks through in West Kruminey, and promptly declares war on East Kruminey, and once they've all figured out where the Krumineys are they have to figure out how much firepower would count as overkill to defeat them both. Krakow has an unseasonable flood of prawns. Two cargo ships collide over Mon ThiÃ©rry. The democratically elected burgermeister of Sturmhalten suddenly vanishes with the proceeds of the summer's democratically debated gate taxes, and Tarvek departs in high dudgeon to sort the matter out. By the time he gets back, having narrowly escaped winning the by-election, it's almost September; he relates the story to an increasingly amused Agatha from the bath. "Look at it this way," Gil tells him, "at least somebody believes in your right to rule."

The dirty look Tarvek gives him in return is beyond description. 

They're all tired, and out of sorts, and neither a loud argument about principles of legitimate government nor a fistfight would do any of them good. "Come on, I need your help with the - " pile of research proposals, she was going to say, but is suddenly struck by a better idea. "New cooling system for the wine cellar."

"We have a wine cellar?" he asks, stumbling after her firm grip on his shirt collar.

"Well, we won't if we can't add a chiller. It got shoved near the main ovens sonehow last time the Castle remodeled, and nobody _noticed_ for thirty years, and now we have a room full of stewed wine and a cook who's running out of space for bottle racks in the cold pantry."

The cellar isn't much of a cellar, being half a flight of stairs above the Big Kitchen. There are spiders. They scuttle away when Agatha loudly clears her throat. Gil chuckles. "You have them well trained."

"They know who's in charge around here." She trails a hand down his side, enjoying the way his breath catches. "What do you think?"

"It is too hot, but I'm not sure where you could put a heat exchange ..."

"I can think of a few places."

"Really, the first thing is to get all these barrels out of the way. If anyone in town wants bad wine they - what are you doing?"

"Trying to seduce you," Agatha says, and pulls her hand out of his shirt. "And apparently not doing a very good job of it."

"Oh. Oh!" Gil brightens. It's somewhere between adorable and maddening how that never seems to occur to him until she has most of his clothes off, although he likes the idea once it's pointed out. "There's not really a good place to lie down."

Agatha shoves him back against the nearest wall, into a gap between two empty bottle racks. "We'll manage, don't you think?" She starts on her trousers. 

"Yes, of course, Agatha," and it shouldn't be quite so arousing the way he breathes out her name, like she's the center of his universe, like he would do absolutely anything she asked. Maybe he would. 

\--

Eventually they remember that they didn't bring any tools - well, Agatha has her adjustable belt set but it only goes up to twelve-seventeenths - and decamp to find supper, and maybe someone who _wants_ three dozen barrels of stewed wine. 

"Your other consort had a meal sent up," the Castle informs them. "And mistress, speaking of consorts, may I bring up the topic - "

"You may not," Agatha snaps. "You know you're not helping your case by asking over and over again like a little kid?" 

A door creaks shut, in what would be a furious, offended huff on a human. Gil chuckles, but quietly. At some point he realized that as amusing as the Castle's continual badgering for heirs was, it wasn't actually a joke, and has been carefully avoiding even bringing up the topic. Agatha would like to have a long talk with him - and Tarvek - about it, but she has no intention of doing it where the Castle can hear, and when the three of them have all left town at once, it's only been because of some horrible crisis. Maybe she should make her bedroom a dead zone. At least put its sensory system on a switch. Privacy is relative, but it doesn't need to be a twelve-times-great-grandfather. 

Yes. Good idea. She doens't know why she didn't think of it before. 

But not right now, because right now there's supper laid out in the bedroom, one of those over-elaborate hor-d'oeuvre trays her cook likes to turn out when she think it's been too long since the last diplomatic banquet, and Tarvek is curled up on one of the sofas in a bathrobe, very intently reading something that looks suspiciously like a Trelawney Thorpe novel with a newspaper wrapped around it. He's absconded with the cheese plate, too, and somehow balanced it on the back of the sofa. "That took a while," he says, without looking up. 

"We had to send plans to the Glassblower's Guild." Gil wanders over, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, leans in to kiss Tarvek, who tilts his head back and makes a quiet little noise of surprise. It's not surprising, now. It still sends a little jolt of satisfaction through Agatha to see it. "Complete mess. It'll take Weinhardt at least two days and four assistants. You would be proud." He tosses a cube of gorgonzola into the air. 

They descend into bickering after that, but that's inevitable. 

\--

"Because she needs one. I explained this already." Tarvek's voice is muffled, but he doesn't lift his face from Agatha's shoulder. He really should move - clean up, go to his own bed, leave them alone - but Gilgamesh has a maddening tendency to start rambling about whatever catches his attention in the relaxed aftermath of lovemaking, and it's difficult not to be drawn in even when all he wants is to let himself drift off to sleep, breathing in the smell of Agatha's hair. He wouldn't, of course. It wouldn't last the night. But he wants to.

Agatha hmmms; he can feel the vibration of her throat. "It would be - nice," she says. "We already have the Great Hospital, so people respect Mechanicsburg for that, but they don't stay longer than they have to. Students stay for years."

Gilgamesh actually does look interested, at that. The Mechanicsburg tourist trade did drop off, after so many of them had their stay involuntarily extended, as it were. And with students, the cultural exchange goes both ways. "We still don't have anywhere to put the damned thing."

"So it'll spread out a bit." Agatha stretches; the motion presses her body against Tarvek's, and he tightens the arm around her waist. 

"Well, you're wecome to the barracks, of course. Who are you going to poach to run it all? And you can't have Boris," he adds, glaring. "I spent so long getting him back from the Library ..."

"I'm not sure."

Tarvek mumbles, "Hugo Glassvitch."

"What? But TPU -"

"Is well established and has several people who would gladly step up the role, wheras founding a university is more challenging. I expect an offer of half again his current salary, embedded in an earnest plea for help from Agatha, will work wonders." He pauses for breath. "If you think you could work with him, of course."

Agatha, by now, has rolled over and is leaning over him, hands firm on his shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. "You havn't written him already, have you?"

"Of course not, I wouldn't do that without your permission, my lady," he babbles. Somehow the part of his brain devoted to hanging on to his dignity just _turns off_ whenever Agatha speaks to him in a particular tone of voice. It's only self-preservation instinct, he knows. She is the Heterodyne, and he loves her absolutely and would trust her with his life, anywhere, but in her stronghold that's not a choice. 

Gilgamesh is still watching them; his hair is a mess and his skin is glimmering with sweat. "He does have moments of good sense," he says, sounding amused. 

"He has good _ideas,_ " Agatha answers, and the praise makes his heart beat faster and the blood rush to his head, and Tarvek needs to get out of this bed before he's tempted to stay all night. Agatha sits back, crossing her arms. "And probably a list of people we should hire? With ideas of how to convince them?"

"Not written down, but I can do that tonight. Convincing them won't be difficult. Where did you put my glasses?" On the bedside table, he knows, but Agatha's still straddling his thighs, keeping him exactly where she wants him. She gets possesive. 

But it's Gilgamesh who reaches over to grab them, setting them on Tarvek's nose with a snort. "She hasn't actually said _yes_ ," he points out, resignation in his voice.

Agatha thumps back to the bed, draping herself over Gil's chest in the process and knocking him back to the matress with a suprised _ooof_. "Yes," she announces, not quite in her Spark voice, but still with that effortless air of command that goes right through Tarvek and pins him to the spot. "Make me a University. A big one." 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Tarvek rolls out of bed. He's not actually sure where his shirt went, and anyhow he really needs a bath, first. "As big as the town, my lady."

"You don't have to call me that!"

"But it's true!" he calls back, and then flees, before she can protest or he can die of embarassment.

On the other side of the connecting door he takes deep, careful breaths. He should have grabbed his clothes, but oh well, it's not like the laundry. can't tell the difference. There's a noise in the air like something laughing quietly - "You shut up," he tells the Castle, and does not take a deep breath to be sure he can't feel the muscles of his back catch against the scars.

"It's good to know her consorts know how to tremble and obey," the Castle informs him.

Tarvek - doesn't like the Castle, exactly, but he appreciates its devotion to Agatha. Especially its willingness to obey her orders, such as 'If anyone tries to kill Gil or Tarvek, stop them but leave them alive for questioning'. That's a very nice thought. He still hasn't gotten used to its sense of humour. The best thing is not to dignify it with a response. He stalks into the bathroom, pulls the curtain around the tub before he turns on the water, and leans into the shower spray as his glasses steam over, eyes closed, resisting the urge to look for bruises. There will, undoubtedly, be some. Gilgamesh worked out very quickly how much Tarvek responded to bites. 

He forgot to grab a nightshirt, too, but there's one hanging on the hook when he steps out of the bath. Maybe it's a gesture of apology.

\--

When they flipped a coin to see who was going to Szpctl to deal with things, Gil thought he'd won. Flying home, after a week which had included about six hours of sleep, he's starting to think he should just let Agatha take over the heroing business - she is in a technical sense four years younger than Gil, and she's better at threatening people with horrible death. She enjoys it. Just to make things more interesting his flyer throws a cam and starts to put out clouds of hideous-smelling smoke; he barely makes it to the edge of Mechanicsburg airspace before the engine dies completely, with a dreadful pinging noise, and the Torchmen have to carry the wounded thing the last few kilometers so it will end up in the Castle courtyard, not some unfortunate farmer's field.

On the brighter side, Agatha immediately decides to blow off dinner with the Grand Duke of Hraefelburg to help him repair it.

Von Zinzer grumbles, as usual, but he gets the flyer into the repair lab and fetches grease and a platoon of Agatha's little clanks. They swarm the engine compartment, making inquisitive noises. At least they're handy for getting it to pieces. 

The cam is beyond repair; he tells Von Zinzer to start the forge and, in the meantime, takes down the pitted wing panels he's been meaning to resurface. Agatha is inspecting the fuel lines, making little dismayed noises that send her clanks scuttering. Gil goes over to help, now the wings are undone. Maybe they should replace the fuel pump, too? Or eliminate it, and let the piston effect draw in fuel, yes, that would be so much more elegant. Where's his occluded hex - ah, there it is, it's so nice having competent minions. 

The hours after that pass in a delightful timeless almost-fugue. At long last he hands the crimping spanner back to Von Zinzer, helps Agatha out of the pilot's seat, and pulls off his grease-stained gloves. "I think that's all we can do until the paint's dry."

"Good," says - not Von Zinzer. Um. Gil turns to look, and finds Tarvek, brandishing the crimping spanner. "You could use a rest."

Tarvek isn't quite dressed formally; he has a labcoat on instead of a dinner jacket, and his collar is undone. "Um," Gil says intelligently. It would have been nice if realizing how much he loved Tarvek hadn't come with bouts of inarticulate inanity around him. "Weren't you having dinner? Where's Von Zinzer?"

"I was until almost eleven, sent the Grand Duke away feeling flattered and very well disposed to the idea of trade concessions, and then I came here and sent your poor minion off to eat something. That was four hours ago, by the way." Tarvek shakes his head. 

Agatha actually looks contrite at that, which is absurd, she should never be sorry for letting her talents shine, or spending a well-earned night having fun. "We were reconfiguring the fuel system," she says. "But you know that, if you've been here four hours. Why didn't _you_ go to bed?" Excellent question, although the one in Gil's head is 'why didn't you join in?'.

Tarvek smiles, a soft wistful look that Gil isn't used to seeing outside of bed. "I like watching you work," he answers, as if it were obvious.

Gil leans against the flyer and tries not to yawn. "It's fine, you make an awfully good minion," he says, and that was meant as a compliment but it doesn't really sound like one, does it? Damn.

But Tarvek's smile doesn't budge. "I have practice," he says. "I used to minion for my sister."

Agatha looks up from inspecting her smeared glasses. "Why?" 

"Sometimes there wasn't anyone else." Tarvek sighs. "She would use lab assistants for research subjects if they got her angry enough, and then the rest would all sneak away and vanish. Here, try this," and he hands Agatha a handkerchief.

"You, ah, didn't sneak off yourself?" Gil asks. 

"Oh, I knew she liked me too much to do permanent damage."

Sometimes Gil wonders how Tarvek became such a devious weasel, and then he'll quite casually mention something like that, and Gil will wonder how he became a devious weasel instead of a gibbering wreck. Or a corpse.

"Your sister was the bad kind of crazy," Agatha says, which is blunt but undoubtedly true. "Come on, help me get the rotary clackers sorted."

Gil watches them, Agatha leading and Tarvek hovering behind her like, yes, an eager minion. Which is a little absurd. He's a Spark himself, and a powerful one, for all his careful self-control. Perhaps the effect of being on someone else's territory, which would create a little deference in any Spark in Mechanicsburg - Mittelmind had explained it at length, and starting running psychological tests on anyone who didn't run away - is working on Tarvek. And of course he's _Agatha's_ ; they both are and they both know it. Even so, something bothers Gil about the way Tarvek is so quiet and submissive, handing parts over to Agatha with head bowed and not so much as a cheerful 'yes, my lady'. Was that how he had to act around his sister? 

Maybe it's just exhaustion. Not everyone can stay up for days on end. Gil resolves to think about it later. 

\--

Moving an entire neighborhood is a job for better weather, but that gives them the whole winter to plan. In the meantime, Agatha has sent offers of employment to twelve carefully-chosen professors. Hugo Glassvitch accepted at once, promising to show up at the end of TPU's next term to oversee the rest of the hiring. A team from the Immortal Library are recatalouging the Castle library, despite its grumbling, and despite its louder grumbling at the redecoration of its seraglio into guestrooms for them. "Get used to it," Agatha had said. "I will _not_ be inviting any concubines."

"If your consorts are unwilling to provide you with any heirs, perhaps -"

"We talked about this. _No._ But," she magnanimously added, "you can keep the statue."

And soon, they'll have a registrar's office - newly built on the site of a failed restaurant, which Vanamonde had eminent-domained to settle a long legal dispute, then found infested with dendrophilic snails. Right now it's an empty hole in the ground, brick foundation sprouting pipe ends like broken bones sticking out of a limb, rapidly turning into a pond in the autumn rains. The Mason's Guild will be around in a few days with sump pumps. Tarvek is staring moodily at the water, and Violetta is skipping stones.

"I still think we should have called it Heterodyne University," Tarvek says.

Violetta huffs, and her next stone bounces off the far wall. "Might as well call it Transylvania Polygnostic West, you're stealing so many professors from them."

"Some of them they're glad to see go," Agatha mutters. "I was surprised nobody had killed Cabriolus since I left."

Tarvek looks amused. "He is Europa's foremost expert in mellismatic hypnosis -" 

"And he's only at TPU because he got kicked out of Aalborg for setting a pipe organ on fire. But if you know any stabler music theorists, put them on the list."

"You're having a music department?" Violetta aims her next rock at a duck; it hisses and takes off.

"Of course," Tarvek tells her. "Why, are you going to sign up for classes?"

"I might. Since, you know, I never did get to start university." Her look is pointed, and Tarvek has the grace to look slightly guilty.

He does pull out the list that night, while Agatha tries to read an impenetrable Latin account of the forging of the Doom Bell, puts down one name, then scratches it out and glares at the paper as if he were trying to set it on fire with his mind. Gil snorts. "Having problems?"

"Music is like chess," Tarvek says, "in that it tends to drive its adepts mad."

"You could try asking for help. I know some people from Paris."

"Yes, I remember Zola particularly well, but then there was one who actually could sing - what was her name, Celestine? The one who used to stick rhinestones -"

"Students!" Gil stiffens in indignation; Agatha, snuggled against him, smothers a giggle. "Why does your mind always go straight for the gutter? Is it so unbelievable I actually studied at university?"

"Not at all, _Herr Doktor Wulfenbach._ " Tarvek turns the spontaneous-combustion look on Gil. "It just contradicts my direct observations."

Maybe that's not so much a burning look as smouldering; the two seem to run so close together with her boys. They have so much history it's almost paleontology. 

"Yeah, yeah, Your Majesty." Gil tightens the arm slung over her shoulders, a reassuring half-hug. "Really, though. I know some people you should ask."

"Good," Tarvek says, and lofts his pen across the room. Gil snatches it out of the air, with a confused noise. "I trust your judgement."

"What?"

"Come on, we're both men of science. I yield to your superior knowledge. Make sure you find musicians worthy of the Lady Heterodyne's patronage." 

Agatha decides to conspicuously bury her face in her book before they ask her to referee. Gil is still staring in bemusement at the pen.

\--

Tarvek is _up to something_ , and Gil wishes he knew what. It's not malicious - after everything they've been through together, he knows Tarvek would never act against Gil's interests. The threats are a form of flirting. But the weasel never has gotten into the habit of honesty.

He does have the habit of working himself to exhaustion and then falling asleep at his desk. Or workbench. In fact, the only thing that surprises Gil when he finds Tarvek in the Unsettlingly Blue Studio at half past two is that he's wide awake, not passed out on a slab, and working on - okay, two things. "What _is_ that thing?"

"Ah, Gilgamesh!" He beams. "I'm making coffee." 

Gil prods one of the curling pieces of copper. "This doesn't look like Agatha's machine." 

"Of course not. She was optimizing for flavour; I am optimizing for caffeine content. We don't all know secret Skifandrian techniques, you know."

"You could just try sleeping."

"Don't you start, I get enough of that from Agatha."

"Oh? Finally found something you don't like about her?"

"Yes, her concern for our welfare is so trying."

"TouchÃ©." Gil grimaces. "Have you got any coffee out of that thing yet?"

Tarvek presses a lever, and the machine springs to life with a gurgle like a dyspeptic mammoth. It hisses. It emits a cloud of brownish steam. A little set of gears whirrs to clicking life. Tarvek grabs a beaker and shoves it under a valve, just in time for a stream of thick, oily-looking black liquid to emerge and fill it up to two decaliters. He grins. "I can't help but notice you're in pyjamas. How sure are you that you don't want to get any sleep tonight?"

Gil grabs the beaker and downs it.

A moment later he's hacking out coffee-like-substance onto the floor while Tarvek helpfully pounds his back. "There might still be a few bugs to work out," he admits. Gil is too busy coughing to reply.

"Please tell me there was no roach powder in that," he finally manages. "I thought we threw out the poison cabinet."

"Don't you know the importance of protien?"

And they both manage to hold their indignant looks for about three seconds, before bursting into laughter. It feels perfectly natural, the most obvious thing in the world, to be clutching his old friend as they try to get ahold of themselves, and Gil wonders what he was so suspicious about. Then he has to stop laughing, because Tarvek is kissing him. 

The first few times they'd kissed there had been too much going on to feel strange or nervous about it; it had been one more inexplicable thing to think about later. By the time they could think about it there had been no need to. Gil tightens his arms around Tarvek and feels him relax into the kiss, and of all the things he has to worry about, he's very glad this isn't one of them.

After a few seconds Tarvek pulls back, grimacing. "Alright, a lot of bugs Eugh."

"That's what you get for kissing your experimental subjects. Don't you know anything about lab safety?" Gil can't keep the smirk off his face.

"Come now, this hardly counts. If I were using you for an experimental subject you'd be strapped to the slab."

Gil rolls his eyes. "And you'd probably still stop to snog."

Now Tarvek is smirking. "I didn't think you liked that sort of game." 

"What do you m- oh. That." Gil's blushing now. It's not as if he hasn't read the same dreadful romance novels Tarvek admitted to, including the knock-off Trelawney Thorpes that the authorized publishers have been trying to shut down for a decade, but the idea of actually trying it? It's not as if he doesn't like listening to a Sparky voice, though, or that his heartbeat doesn't speed up at - oh dear. Apparently he does like that sort of thing. "Do, uh, do you want to try it?"

Tarvek's face goes completely blank for a few seconds, and then his expression turns calculating. "I could be persuaded."

"Do you really want to, though? I know I'm no good at reading signals, half the time Agatha has to just tell me she's trying to seduce me, and you get even more cryptic, which is fine, nerv-"

"Gilgamesh. _Get on the slab._ "

The voice is thick with harmonics, and it goes right down Gil's spine and tips him over, right onto the slab, where he finds Tarvek kneeling over him, pinning his wrists down, and looking - a little nervous, in fact. "Tarvek?"

"Are you alright with this? Just say so and we can go make love in an actual bed."

It's touching that he's so worried, and Gil won't pretend that the idea of lying there helpless doesn't set his nerves on edge, but. He forces himself to grin, letting his pointed teeth show. "Get on with the experiment."

He's not quite sure what happens to his trousers at that point, and the sudden cold is distracting enough he isn't quite sure how his wrists ended up in the cuffs, either. 

Smoke Knight trickery, obviously. He blinks as Tarvek presses a hand to his chest, with a soft, thoughtful smile. "An _excellent_ specimen," he says, voice thick with the not-quite-harmonics again. "Tell me, how does this feel?"

Gil blinks. "Tickles a little?"

"And this?" He's gone straight for the groin, and Gil hisses and tugs on the cuffs even as he starts to harden at the touch. Tarvek pulls his hand back. "A little sensitive?"

"A little _fast._ " 

"Mm." Tarvek steps back, to where Gil would have to crane his neck to see, but he's still making noise with his footsteps. A creak, a rustle of fabric, the noise of a door. When he leans over Gil again his waistcoat is gone, shirt unbuttoned, and his hair hangs loose over his shoulders. He holds up a quill pen, the fancy kind with barbs left on the rachis. "Are you ticklish?"

"Uh. I don't think so?"

"Let's verify that, shall we?" Tarvek says, in the bright voice of someone with an Idea.

It takes a few minutes, which leave Gil panting and moaning and not quite entirely coherent. He can't keep from tugging on the cuffs, either, but they don't pull loose. This thing is sturdy. He's strapped to a lab table in Castle Heterodyne, and Tarvek Sturmvoraus is smirking at him. This should bother Gil a lot more than it does.

No, not smirking - just smiling fondly, and leaning down for another kiss. This one is lighter, the sort of almost-brush of their lips he might give Gil for a greeting, in front of company. Just enough to make it obvious they can't be played against each other. "How are you feeling now?" he whispers. 

Gil has trusted Tarvek with his empire, his life, and the inside of his head. Body shouldn't be difficult at all. "Tense," he allows.

He's not sure what he expected. Some joke about the obvious way to relax, maybe. But what he gets is Tarvek's fingers digging into his shoulders, working the knots out. "I'm not surprised," he mutters. "You have no idea how to take care of yourself. Here, lift your head." Gil does, chuckling, and Tarvek's scowl deepens as he rubs the back of Gil's neck. "What's so funny?"

"Only you would tie someone to a slab and give them a massage."

"Oh, I have other plans." Tarvek smiles again, and his voice goes husky. "Let's see exactly how sensitive you are. Must get some useful data." 

Gil lets his head fall back. It's no use arguing at this point. Especially not now that Tarvek is licking a slow line down his chest, stopping every time Gil's breath catches to make a little satisfied noise, as if he's found something out. He closes his eyes, and forces himself to take deep breaths. 

Somewhere in the vicinity of his hipbone, Tarvek stops. There's no Spark at all in his voice when he asks, "Are you feeling alright?"

"You are a terrible tease," Gil informs him. He's still nervous, but it wouldn't be fair to stop now. He's too aroused to actually want to stop, anyway. "Get on with it."

Tarvek gets on with it.

It doesn't take long before they're both panting and spent, collapsed on the table. Gil still feels tense all over, muscles quivering from being worked too long; the orgasm helped, but he still doesn't want to move. Tarvek is wrapped around Gil, knees tight around his hips and head pillowed on his chest. He must be feeling incredibly smug right now. 

Eventually Tarvek murmurs against his chest, "Experiment a success?"

"Hands," Gil says. He's not sure he can manage a full sentence. 

"Wha - oh. Right." Tarvek snakes out a hand to undo the left cuff, without actually lifting his head. Apparently he feels that's sufficient, because he goes right back to nuzzling Gil's collarbone.

Gil is feeling magnanimous enough not to actually tip him off as he gets the other one free. It takes some concentration, which puts his mind back together enough for him to suggest, with only a little bit of malice, "I could really go for a cup of coffee right now."

Tarvek doesn't dignify that with a response.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Caffeine is not actually a substitute for sleep. Nor are any of the various stimulants Smoke Knights use. Tarvek knows this. He has also discovered lately that if he doesn't turn up in his bedroom for two consecutive nights, Gilgamesh will notice, and will come looking for him. It's staggeringly hypocritical of him, not least because he must be checking with the Castle to notice. 

So, instead of sitting up and not sleeping, Tarvek is lying in bed with his eyes closed and not sleeping. 

There have been no more than the usual round of crises; 'settle down' is too strong a term, but maybe they can catch their breath. Anyone with immediate objections to the new Heterodyne empire has made them already. They'll get more enemies, he's sure, but not right away. Nothing really worth losing sleep over. Which isn't stopping Tarvek. He can only assume worrying has become so habitual to him that he can find a cause to worry in the faintest snatches of a conversation, the way people are so good at spotting faces they spot them in woodgrain or the pattern of dark patches on toast. He has no reason to care if he's upset Gilgamesh.

Well, apart from the detail that they have to work together for the good of Europa. 

And that Tarvek is madly in love with Gilgamesh, but he managed to spend more than a decade without _noticing_ that, much less worrying. He could shove those feelings right back into the hollow space where his conscience should be, and carry on. The problem is that living in close proximity to Gil for a year has distinctly failed to breed contempt. If anything, he keeps digging himself deeper. The way Agatha smiles when she sees them hugging, the way Gilgamesh can take his hesitant sketch of a radiator upgrade and turn it into three prototypes with their own built-in teakettles, the way they laugh at the same things when they're comparing notes after a diplomatic meeting with some halfwitted windbag -

That time Gilgamesh let him get kidnapped by a sadistic pirate queen hadn't killed it. Why would being happy together?

Which is why he's lying awake fretting over something completely ridiculous. The connecting door is ajar; if he holds his breath, Tarvek can hear Agatha's quiet snores. Gilgamesh will be sprawled out beside her, taking up two people's share of bedspace as usual. How convenient that the bed was made for four.

This bed was barely made for one, but they had both fit into it, somehow, that one night. Tarvek had surprised himself by slipping right back into sleep, feeling perfectly safe under Gilgamesh's steady arm, as absurd a romance-novel idea as that is. And Gilgamesh - he can't have slept. At all. He would have turned over in his sleep, and then he would have fallen out of bed. Gilgamesh was there for the awkward conversation when Tarvek admitted to his habit of waking up if someone in the same room breathed oddly, much less elbowed him in the kidney. He only made one princess-and-the-pea joke, which Tarvek had assumed, then, was due to the early hour and not any actual sympathy. 

And then Tarvek made a joke, half-expecting to get a broken beaker over the head for it, only for Gil to volunteer for the experiment. Tarvek still isn't sure what he did wrong. 

Gilgamesh certainly seemed to be enjoying it. His heartrate stayed high. He didn't protest the dirty talk. He fought, some, but everything Tarvek has read suggests that's a normal part of the game. He'd even made that joke about coffee afterward, and certainly if Gilgamesh were annoyed, he wouldn't flirt like that.

That he's not once since tried to bodily drag Tarvek out of the room, or called him a devious weasel, could be nothing but coincidence. The frequency of insults has been gradually decreasing anyway, and it's been _months_ since Gilgamesh called him by his family name. All that took was a slightly abashed confession of how bitter it made Tarvek feel. The easiest possible bit of manipulation. Gilgamesh can scheme with the best of them, when required, but it will never be ingrained. 

 

Tarvek had been rather looking forward to the retaliatory ravishment, although admitting as much isn't really within bounds for a game like this.

The trouble with Gilgamesh is that he doesn't know how to play games. 

He's not going to get any sleep, is he? Tarvek decides to give up. If he fetches a glass of wine and the first batch of application letters and the glowlight from his desk, he can get some use of the time, and have a laugh, and honestly say tomorrow he was in bed all night, except when he got up for a drink. 

\--

"I need your blood!"

Gil's eyes widen, and Agatha realizes she's holding the syringe rather menancingly. She lowers it, with an embarassed cough. "Er, just about sixty milliliters of it, that is."

"What for?" Gil sets his book down, and starts rolling up his sleeve. 

"Comparison. My ancestors were absolutely terrible at writing things down, and the Castle has been _no help whatsoever._ " She glares at the nearest doorway. 

"I gave you the location of Venthraxus Heterodyne's secret research notes," the gargoyle on the doorpost mutters, looking amazingly petulant for a gargoyle.

"Yes, and I'll have to try out the escargazpacho next time I need to offend someone over dinner, but that wasn't much help with the jägers." Agatha hands the rubbing alcohol to Gil instead of setting down the syringe - she really should have brought her little clanks along, running out of hands is always a problem with medical procedures. Maybe some sort of exoskele - no. Focus. "Gkika was too afraid someone might steal her notes to keep any. At least she's not a Spark, so she can give me sensible explanations now." 

Gil looks thoughtful. "Would the Jägerbrau even work on a Spark?"

"I don't know and I'm not testing it. We know battledraught works on _you_ , though, so it's possible. Ready?"

"Go ahead."

She wants to keep talking, bounce ideas about her distillation process and the strange effects of the Dyne, but not in front of the Castle. It's still mad that so many people saw its power source. Letting on that she considers keeping the secrets of Jäger biology less important than understanding it as completely as possible, and making the most effective battledraught, and possibly even testing volunteers for the Brau to eliminate the casualty rate, which Agatha is determined to do before she takes any volunteers, seems unnecessarily cruel.

Gil's blood looks exactly like normal human blood, which proves exactly nothing. So does the blood of most Jägers; only one in five develops hemocyanin, and it never replaces hemoglobin, only supplements it. Agatha doesn't know if her ancestors noticed that. Gil looks at her quizzically as she presses a bandage to his arm. "They didn't even write down the battledraught formula?"

"Not unless it's in here somewhere." She waves an arm at the rest of the library, which is currently an enormous mess. Books are piled on tables, and the floor, and on platforms cantilevered off the balconies. Most of the trophy case is wrapped in red warning ribbon. Someone has built a wall from, amoung other things, the first sixty volumes of Feupierre's _Exhaustive Guide to Inns, Hostelries, and Restaurants of France_ , blocking off the door to the book repair studio. About half the shelves are empty.

Gil follows her gaze. "Well," he offers ruefully, "maybe we'll find something when the catalogue is done." 

"They think that will be in January. Maybe."

"Where are they, anyway? It's past ten."

Agatha grins. "Sleeping off their hangovers, I expect. They finished chronologilizing the Sociology section last night, so we all went down to the Brazen Head to celebrate. When I left Tarvek had just finished singing the Library anthem. All fifty-seven verses. I didn't know the Immortal Library _had_ an anthem."

"I didn't know anyone knew it straight through." Gil's smile is fonder than he would probably admit. "That explains why he got in at four this morning."

Agatha leans over the back of his chair to give Gil a one-armed hug; she really should put down the syringe. "You know what he told me the first time we saw this room?"

"Mmm?"

"He told me he was going to marry me for my library."

Gil stifles a laugh on his hand. "Well, at least you know why he's really here."

"You know what he said last night? He said it wasn't nearly big enough to expand the university, and asked if I was particularly attached to the impluvium, or if we could roof it over and add shelves."

"What? No. Clean out the old armory, most of that stuff is obsolete and the rest could go in the gatehouses, then untrap the Hall of Mirrors and smash the damned things. _Then_ roof the impluvium."

The Castle interjects, in a low growl, "Or you could acquire a new library rather than subject the stronghold of the Heterodynes to a plauge of _students_."

Agatha takes a deep breath. "Castle. We discussed this. One trap each, no permanent damage, repeats only if they damage the books."

The rattling noise the door makes is like someone stomping off in a huff.

Gil tilts his head back invitingly, and Agatha leans over for an upside-down kiss. When they pull apart he' grinning. "I can just imagine it," he tells her. "A hundred years from now, our grandchildren living in the old seraglio. The rest of the castle turned into a giant library."

"Living in a library. Well, I can think of worse places to live."

Not until she's alone in her lab half an hour later does it occur to Agatha that she hadn't even questioned the assumption they would have grandchildren.

\--

Most of the time, Tarvek manages to just avoid Bangladesh Dupree. She's the fleet commander, so most of her time is on her flagship or at Sturmhalten. Despite three years with a Wulfenbach fleet overhead, Mechanicsburg doesn't have a proper airdock yet. But it has a big, empty field with a beacon out next to the Corbettite terminal, and he and Gil have plans and are taking bids, and the unfortunate side effect is that Dupree has a very good reason to be in Mechanicsburg.

Which doesn't mean she has a good reason to be in his _bathroom._

He manages not to scream. That would only encourage her. Instead he converts it to a bellow of "CASTLE!"

"What?" The Castle sounds offended, which is not fair when there's a mad pirate grinning at him and all he's wearing is a towel.

"I told you not to let anyone interrupt me in the bath unless it was a life-or-death emergency!"

"You're not in the bath," Dupree points out, and the way she's grinning as she leans against the sink is actually somehow worse than if she had tried to grab the towel right away. And the door is shut, which probably means it's locked, because the Castle thinks it's funny. "Dripping is a good look on you. You're cute when you go that funny red color, you know?"

Tarvek reminds himself he has nothing to be afraid of. She didn't kill him even when it wouldn't have mattered, killing him now is probably one of the few things Dupree could do to ruin Gilgamesh's irrational good opinion of her, he can fight her off regardless, and if Dupree has romantic inclinations that don't involve bloodshed, she hides them very well. His back is still tensing where the scars used to be. "Did you have a reason to come in here?"

"I did! I wanted your autograph on the dock foundation plans."

"I will be glad to look at them in twenty minutes when my hair is dry. That is _not_ an emergency. Why are you in this room?" Since when was Dupree subtle? He'd always liked how willing she was to admit to her violent tastes.

"Wanted to see if you still screamed like a little girl." She shrugs. Ah, yes, he knew she couldn't keep up the lie. And now there's a blade in her hand, and she's pressing him up against the wall, whispering in his ear, "Maybe I should give you some more scars. That'd be so much fun."

How much can he fight without making it obv- oh. Right. No longer a concern. Why is he still here? Of course, Dupree might stop going easy on him if she knows he'll fight back. He can get through whatever she has planned, better just to let it happen and not try to be brave, Dupree likes the screaming. 

Except his subconcious mind must not agree, because by the time Tarvek's decided that he's already across the room and Dupree is clutching her knee and cursing. 

There are no good weapons in here, so he grabs a hairbrush and throws it - not much of a hit, but it does make Dupree flinch away, and that's enough to sweep at her legs with the other towel. She dodges, and tries to grab him by the hair. Tarvek ducks under it, aims for the solar plexus, and Dupree's step out of the way takes her right into a puddle.

She goes over into the bath with legs flapping like broken hoses, and the resulting splash gets most of the room, Tarvek included. 

He probably should run away now, but Dupree is laughing, and the Castle is joining in, with a noise like slamming doors. Instead he takes a deep breath, makes sure the towel isn't about to slip, and goes over to help her up.

She's already up, though, and clambering out of the bathtub, her smile a bright slash across her face. "I knew it!"

"Knew _what?_ " He'd be tearing at his hair, but it's enough of a mess.

Dupree hasn't lost her grip on her knife, and he tenses as she raises it. "That you'd fight back if I went for you hard enough. Ta!" And flipping the knife end-over-end in the air, she strolls out the door, squelching gently as she goes.

What Tarvek would really like to do, right now, is sit down and shake for a while. Which is absurd. He's has a sword through the leg and carried on limping, and this time he wasn't even hurt. He allows himself three deep breaths, to unjangle his nerves, before he starts searching for a dry towel.

But for some reason, the morning's misadventure keeps eating at him, while he goes over the airdock plans and has an argument with Gil about maximum envelope beam and answers a dozen diplomatically important communiques. He keeps looking over his shoulder for Dupree. She's made him even more terrified, by the clever trick of walking away. It's not fair. Monsters aren't meant to be subtle. He keeps a smile on his face through dinner. He goes to bed with Agatha, and applies himself to their lovemaking with such enthusiasm she starts to laugh between her moans, which is always delightful. She lets him lie with his head on her breasts afterwards, and strokes his hair as they talk of nothing particularly important, until Gilgamesh turns up and he has an excuse to flee.

Another shower would be in order, but it's fifty-fifty if the Castle bothered sending a housekeeper after he spoiled its fun this morning. Besides, Dupree isn't leaving town until tomorrow. Would hiding from her actually work? She's always claimed to be a good tracker, and the Castle might think it was funnier to help than get her lost. But there is, at least, one place she might leave alone.

A few minutes later Tarvek has resettled the bookpiles from Gilgamesh's abandoned bed. He tenderly closes one that had been left face-down and sets it aside for one of the librarians to check for damage. Gilgamesh does not treat books properly. He also doesn't have any appreciation for a comfortable bed, Tarvek concludes a few uncomfortable minutes later, but perhaps if you never actually _sleep_ there it's irrelevant. That also explains the blanket, which manages to scratch worse than wool without actually being warm. 

It doesn't smell of anything but laundry soap and dust.

Tarvek buries his face in the pillow anyway, and takes deep breaths. Stupid romance-novel ideas. He wishes Gilgamesh were here, or even that he could hear him snoring, but avoiding Dupree takes precedence. She has a way of getting under his skin in the purely metaphorical sense, never mind her more literal attempts. The madwoman seems to think he's some kind of science experiment, _how loud can we make the boy squeal?_ It's a very unsettling thought, and Tarvek prods at it like a loose tooth.

The idea that falls out makes him feel sick. No wonder Gilgamesh has been avoiding him. 

Well, he can apologize, and it might even be accepted. It's not as if Agatha would let them stay angry with each other. At the worst, they can pretend in front of her while Gilgamesh's bad opinion fades, as if inevitably will if Tarvek is careful not to prod his bruises. 

\--

It's not strange for Tarvek to pull Gil aside into some empty room to talk privately. The room is rarely Agatha's bedroom, though, and in the month since she installed it he hasn't seen Tarvek twist the unremarkable bit of brass decoration that turns the room into a dead zone for three hours. 

That he opens with, "I owe you an apology," is even more inexplicable, and Gil blinks, wracking his brains for what Tarvek might be inspired to apologize for. It must be recent, but the most obnoxious thing he can remember since the summer is that mess with the Count of Hrafelscu, and Gil understands the necessity of sometimes looking like an unstable maniac for the good of the Empire. He just would have liked more warning. 

Tarvek continues: "You don't like the game, I should have seen that, and I won't ask again." Gil tries not to look as confused as he feels. "But if you're going to punch me for it could you please do it here and now?"

The silence is thick and unpleasant between them.

"Tarvek," Gil finally admits, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"Last Wednesday! You tried my hypercaffineated coffee, I, er, proposed another experiment, and for some reason you weren't willing to say no. But not only havn't you paid me back, you've avoided me ever since. Clearly it meant something other than a game to you. I won't ask again."  
/ _That's_ what he's worried about? Why he's looking fretful and apologizing where the Castle can't hear and, Gil suddenly notices, standing a meter away, not touching him at all. He would burst out laughing, except that clearly it meant something to Tarvek too or he wouldn't be so wound up over it. He settles for grabbing him by the waist, which gets an indignant sqwawk. "What brought this on, huh?"

Tarvek's eyes narrow. "An attack of conscience." 

That is almost certainly a lie, but Gil decides to let it slide. He's about to be quite nasty enough. "Good to know you're developing one." That, amazingly, gets a flinch. "I wasn't avoiding you, you know. Just busy. Mostly with your university plans. I was starting to think you were avoiding me. Feeling guilty?"

"Isn't that what someone with a conscience is meant to feel when they hurt someone?" 

Only Tarvek could make that sound so bitter. His breath is shallow, but that might just be fear, since Gil has his arms pinned. He goes on, relentlessly: "Why exactly are you accusing me of lying to you? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you!" 

"Then start acting like it," Gil snaps, and tightens his grip as Tarvek tries to pull away. "I wouldn't _let_ you hurt me, Tarvek. Believe it or not, I'm not afraid of you."

Tarvek doesn't fight it as Gil tugs him close. Instead he sighs, and lets his head drop to Gil's shoulder. "I would never try to hurt you, I don't want - you shouldn't have to worry about that. Agatha wouldn't stand for it, anyway." 

This is not how it's supposed to go. They should be able to insult and annoy and manhandle each other and know that none of it means anything, and seeing Tarvek acting so uneasy is horribly wrong. "Well, you didn't. Stop being an idiot about it." Gil awkwardly tries to pat him on the back without letting his arms loose. 

"Thank you." Tarvek presses a kiss to his neck.

Right, that's enough of that. Gil lets go, and shoves him away by the shoulders, far enough to see his face. "Now, what's this about payback? You like that sort of game, too?"

Hah! He's blushing. Gil is expecting some smart remark, _It's traditional to turn the tables_ or _Oh no, does the vicious Baron intend to ravish me?_ , but what he gets is a quiet, earnest murmur of, "I trust you, Gil.".

Right. Not necessarily a game. 

He's a little out of his depth here; there's only so much one can gather from cheap adventure novels. Gil realizes he's blushing too, like a complete fool. Well, they'll just have to blunder around together. They've done it before. Gil still remembers the acute embarassment he and Agatha had shared when they realized their combined sexual experience ended at kissing-with-light-groping, although they had remedied the lack with great enthusiasm. And he remembers the look on Tarvek's face afterwards, the first time he'd joined them, like someone hit him over the head with a brick. Not very romantic. Worth it, though.

"Good, we can work with that," he says, to cover his nervousness. "How do you want to play it? Scientist and experimental subject? Pirate and capt-" apparently not, he's gone tense at that. "Uh. Feudal lord and handmaiden?"

"And where would I find a dress that actually fit me?" Tarvek rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, but his expression softens. "Just - tell me what to do, and you can do whatever you want to me."

What he wants is for Tarvek to be so distracted that the guilty look isn't lurking at the edge of his eyes, for him to be as eager and unguarded as he sometimes gets when he calls Agatha 'my lady', for him to curl up in Gil's arms afterward and tell him how good it felt. He's not sure how to arrange that, but Gil is starting to have some ideas. He clears his throat. "I think I need to talk to Agatha about this," he says, and Tarvek looks mortified. "Don't argue, you trust her too."

"She doesn't like getting dragged into our fights."

"This is the exact opposite of a fight. Relax."

"Fine." Tarvek glares at nothing in particular. "You obviously know best."

"I just don't -" Gil breaks off at the sound of a sudden knock on the door, and they hurry to straighten their clothes and look normal again. Gil thumps the unremarkable patch of wall that turns the Castle's perceptions back on before he opens the door.

It's Fraulein Snaug, bouncing on her toes like she's about to deliver good news. "Come quick," she says. "The town is under attack by giant frogs!"

"Giant - " Tarvek's face goes green. "Oh, you've got to be kidding. Doctor Haverly got _tenure_ , what can he possibly want now?" 

"I don't know. But Lady Heterodyne is letting them get tired trying to jump over the wall, and she thought you might want to watch? They're next to the Gate of Skulls." 

"We should try to take them alive, at least a breeding pair. Grenouille is popular these days." Tarvek frowns.

Gil grins. "Time to test out the Advanced Web Cache?"

Snaug bounces on her toes again. "I'll find Mezzasalma."

\--

Agatha doesn't look up from her maps when the door opens. "We need more cake," she says. 

"I'm sure Rinja will be glad to provide, my lady."

Wait, that's not Rinja. She does look up, blinking. "Tarvek! You're early." He doesn't look hurried, he never does, but he's carrying three books and has a teapot in the other hand, which he must have intercepted on the way in, and a beaming, genuine smile. "Good news?"

"Oh yes. The post just got in." He drops the books in front of Vanamonde, himself into the third chair, and produces a purple-sealed letter from his coat. "They're sending Grand Curators Solera to negotiate the interlibrary loan agreement."

Agatha considers this while she refills her teacup. "Jon and Melissa are easy to deal with," she allows. "And we're already on good terms with the library, so ... " 

"You didn't open the letter," Vanamonde points out, raising an eyebrow.

"Please! I wouldn't open the Lady Heterodyne's mail."

"If it's diplomatic, it's yours too," she says, and goes back to examining the map. One of the problems with this town is that the Hospital is the only part that's anything like well-mapped. Oh, the streets are obvious, but not even the secret passages that brewers use for deliveries are on the fragmentary sketches Public Works has put together. One of the many problems with letting the Castle run everything. "Calling the meeting?"

"If you don't mind, Agatha?"

"Have I ever tried to take a diplomatic summit away from you?" She shoves the last piece of tartelette at him. "Now help us figure out where to lay steam pipes." 

The first book Tarvek brought turns relevant in short order, when it turns out to be, wonder of wonders, notes on the thorn hedge. Agatha had not been looking forward to using the kill-it-with-fire approach to holding it back, when they took the walls down. "Sorry, I havn't cracked the code yet," Tarvek tells them.

Vanamonde is holding the book up sideways, and squinting at it. "I don't think this is in code."

"What exactly is it in, then?"

"Old Mechanicsburg dialect, and Artemesius Heterodyne's abominable handwriting." He sets the book down with somewhat more delicacy than he had picked it up. "I've seen his diaries." 

"But that would make it at least -" The blood drains from Tarvek's face. "And I carried it all the way here in the rain," he says, like someone confessing to murdering a kitten.

"I wouldn't worry, the old masters liked things sturdy." 

Agatha finds herself squinting sideways at the book. Those sketches are thorn hedge, certainly, but the letters don't really look Latin _or_ Cyrillic, and if what Vanamonde said is true - "I really need to learn that dialect. Are there dictionaries, or has it always been taught person-to-person?"

"Oh, there are dictionaries." Van brightens. "We used to print one for the tourist trade. Talk Like A Mechanicsburger In Twelve Easy Lessons. And a few scholarly works, of course."

"Good. Send me copies." 

"If you'd rather have a tutor, I'm sure you would have your pick of volunteers."

"Maybe later," Agatha tells him, "but I learn fastest from books." A habit borne of necessity, maybe, but her habit nonetheless. She's looking forward to the library reorganization being done; Agatha expects to spend a few days just reading the catalogue, looking for things she should look into. Van is blinking, brows furrowed. "You know how it is - everything just slides together when you see it laid out on paper. Doesn't that ever happen for you?"

"Not really." Van lools a little rueful. 

Tarvek coughs. "In the meantime," he says, in his familiar getting-things-on-track voice, "and for the benefit of posterity, who could translate and transcribe this?"

"If it's Heterodyne secrets, I had best give it to my mother."

Agatha agrees, and they move on to alternate plans for dealing with the hedge - fire always being a backup, but Agatha has high hopes for targeted weedkillers - and making up for the breach in their defenses, just in case. What they should really be doing is _expanding_ the thorn hedge, putting it around the new walls. Convincing it not to react to one piece of old wall vanishing is fine, but Agatha has no intention of leaving her town more vulnerable than necessary.

Eventually Vanamonde heads out to inform a number of building companies that they'll be submitting bids to him next week, leaving Agatha and Tarvek to debate road placements across their growing pile of sketches. They don't pick up the argument, though. Instead they wind their fingers together over the table, and Tarvek is giving her one of those soft little smiles that always makes her melt. "It's all going to work out," he tells her. 

"It will be good practice for taking down the rest of the old walls."

"So you want to go ahead with the ring-road plan?"

"The town center is too crowded, it will encourage commerce ..."

"And the Wulfenbach walls are better built anyway. Please don't tell Gil I said that, he'll be insufferable."

Agatha stifles a laugh. "Your secret is safe with me."

"Mm. Speaking of secrets, if you're learning the Old Mechanicsburg dialect, Gil and I should as well. Can you help me convince him?"

"Why?" Agatha blinks. They havn't felt unwelcome here, have they? Nobody has objected to Tarvek literally rearranging the streets, and Gil not only gets free drinks at every bar in town, he's allowed downstairs at Gkika's. 

But Tarvek slips effortlessly into French as he answers, "Because it is no one's language of diplomacy."

Oh. For keeping secrets. Agatha squeezes his hand. "Gil will see the sense in it, then."

"He has occasional flashes of intelligence." Tarvek's fond smile slips back onto his face. 

"And sheer stupidity. I still don't know what he was thinking with the statues."

"They did mean nobody could plausibly impersonate you in front of anyone who'd been near Mechanicsburg. One of those half-cocked plans that would go horribly wrong if anyone more sensible tried it." Tarvek sighs. "Like that mess at the Corondon Conservatory. If anyone else had tried it, the drummer clanks would have snuck up on us while we were all still deaf from the blast. Did he ever tell you about that?"

"No." Agatha grabs the last piece of cake. The stories Gil sometimes reveals about his time in Paris are worth hearing, if only for the knowledge of how to break things, but Tarvek manages to make the same incidents sound three times as dangerous. "Tell me now?"

"Alright. I should warn you, don't mention any of this to Xerxsephina. She's never forgiven us." 

\--

Gilgamesh has very strong hands, and they're tight and steady on Tarvek's shoulders, and it's entirely too easy to do what those hands are urging him to and drop to his knees. He tries to keep his breathing steady.

Somewhere above, Agatha makes an appreciative noise. Gilgamesh chuckles. "You want to try?"

"Oh no," she says. "I'm just here to watch."

It's not the first time she's _just watch_ ed them together. It's the first time Agatha has watched them at this particular game, though, and Tarvek has an irrational urge to pat his hair into shape. He pushes it down, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. She's on the left end of the sofa, where Tarvek could see if he looked up. She was spinning his glasses between her fingers, a little earlier. He keeps his eyes on the floor. 

Gilgamesh closes his hands on Tarvek's wrists, still strong and steady. He waits for a few seconds - giving him a chance to object, Tarvek thinks - before he pulls them back and starts to wrap the ribbon around them, over and over. Not very tight, not enough to leave marks, but enough to make it inconvenient to get loose. The ribbon was Agatha's idea. Tarvek had only asked that they not use anything with a lock. 

It still feels strange, that they _talked_ about this. He'd meant it about trusting Gil. 

From Agatha's laugh, Gil must have added a bow on top the knot, like he'd threatned. Tarvek blushes. "Glad you're enjoying this," he mumbles. 

That gets another gentle squeeze of the wrist, and Gilgamesh asks, sounding on the edge of laughter himself, "Aren't you?"  
"Yes." 

He has to force the word out, past the lump of nerves in his throat. But Gil's hands are firm on his waist and Gil's breath is warm on his ear as he whispers, "You say that now, but I'm going to make you feel so good you forget your own name. You'll beg me for more, and you'll get it." He says it like a threat, and Tarvek wants to burst out laughing. Gilgamesh is no good with dirty talk, he always sound like he's misquoting a cheap adventure novel, but he tries. And he wraps his arms around Tarvek's shoulders and bites down on the skin of his neck, hard enough to leave a bruise, and the complaint Tarvek was trying to put together flies out of his head. He clenches his fists. 

There's at least one word he can manage: "Please". 

"Please what?" Gil sounds so smug at that. 

But Tarvek can't quite articulate it any further. His head is spinning. Gil lets go, with an annoyed-sounding huff, and runs his hands down Tarvek's sides. "Begging already? I like it." He pulls Tarvek back against him - Tarvek finds himself clutching at Gil's belt - and reaches around for a few firm strokes, and there's no point trying not to whimper. "Keep doing that," Gilgamesh tells him. Tarvek does his best to oblige. It's nice, for once, to know exactly what to do. All he has to do is lean back against Gilgamesh's strong body, keep breathing, let himself feel and not fight it. Not easy - he's not used to letting go - but simple. "You make such pretty noises. What should I do with you next?"

He lets his head fall to Gil's shoulder and listens to the appreciative noises Agatha is making from the sofa, and there's a huff of laughter behind him, and then a hand over his eyes.

No. No, it's not important, he doesn't need to see right now, just breathe -

But then it goes away, and Gil's hugging him again, whispering "Sorry, obviously not that. You okay?"

"Fine," he manages, after a few deep breaths. 

It must have been convincing, because Gil lets him go. Tarvek almost whimpers at the sudden loss of contact, but now Gil is standing in front of him, pulling off his trousers, and kneeling down for a kiss.

The kiss is long, and deep, and Gilgamesh holds him close so he doesn't have to make an effort to balance. Tarvek closes his eyes and melts into it. 

Things blur a little after that. He can usually feel Gil's hands on him, constantly reassuring, holding him safely. Agatha calls out suggestions, and Gil takes them, and Tarvek moans and trembles and slumps over, concentration lost. If it weren't for the ribbon he would be clutching desperately at Gil's shoulders. When they move to the bed Gil has to toss his limp body down like a doll.

He finds himself blinking, staring up at Agatha's face. Her hands are on his shoulders and her smile is a little bit predatory. "My lady?"

"Oh yes," she says, as if it made sense, and strokes a bit of hair away from his eyes. 

From somewhere around his hips Gilgamesh is saying, "I'm sure he could put that tounge to better use -"

"Maybe next time," she says. The hand in his hair goes tight, keeping his head still, although he's suddenly very aware how close the join of her legs is, moaning with the urge to taste. His hands are pinned flat by his own weight, and the sudden touch of Gil's tounge is so startling he tenses up all over. 

Gil's laugh is warm against his skin, and then he's moving up until he's kneeling on Tarvek's thighs, hands on his upper arms, beaming smile a little too far away to kiss. "I'm keeping you," he says. "You're never getting away from us."

"Oh," Tarvek manages. "Good." He already feels wrung-out, as unfocused as he does in the aftermath. The words come from a very long way away, and then he loses them completely when Gil presses their hips together and his teeth to Tarvek's throat. 

Afterwards he's pressed against Gilgamesh, Agatha still stroking his hair, and it takes a while to remember to want his hands free. The ribbon got tangled, and he takes so long at it that Gil notices, pulls at the bow himself until it ravels loose. Tarvek hides his blush against Gil's chest. "Sorry," Gil mumbles. "Too good a knot?"

His mind is still fuzzy at the edges, but Tarvek manages to string the words together. "You're distracting. Which knot doesn't matter."

"Good." He can feel Gil's laughter.

He can feel the spots where he'll have bruises tomorrow, too, deliberate toothmarks. The thought makes him blush again, as he wraps his arms around Gilgamesh and listens to his steady breaths. It shouldn't be so comforting to think of feeling someone so long after they touch you.

\--

The flying machine, version sixteen, is really just version fifteen with the updated wing profile and no fuel pump. Gil isn't very happy with it, but it will work until he has a week free to build something new. He scowls at the model wing structure and gives it a twang. It vibrates alarmingly. He's almost sure that's what killed the cam last time.

"You could just switch to wooden crosspieces," Tarvek offers.

Gil doesn't jump, although he twitches a little. Tarvel being in here means either the Castle is having a mood, or he's gotten better at lockpicking than Gil has at building locks. "What do you know about it? You know nothing about aeronautics!" 

"I know mechanics, and you only need steel struts there if you're expecting ... you're trying to make something that can go backwards like a hummingbird, aren't you? What do you have against aircraft that hover the natural way?"

"The part where you have to drag a honking big gasbag with you everywhere." Gil crosses his arms and tilts his stool back until he can look Tarvek in the eye, albeit upside-down. "Did you just want to insult me or did you have a reason to come in here?"

"I didn't, but I think this thing did." And Tarvek produces, from some hidden fold of his coat, one of Agatha's little clanks. It's roughly cylindrical, three feet sprouting from the bottom end and one eye on a stalk from the top, and the neatness of its copper casing suggests a first-generation clank. Gil stares at it. "I found it looking through your sketches."

"Uh."

"And it was gazing longingly at the flyer last time you actually landed in the courtyard in one piece."

"That's a lot of extrapolation given they don't really have facial expressions. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if you want to try out your ideas with a scale model, instead of giving me heart palpitations taking a dive off the Castle whenever you get a new design, I think I've found you a test pilot." He drops the clank on Gil's chest, and Gil hurriedly grabs at it. "An unbreakable one." 

Maybe not with a copper casing, it wouldn't hurt to upgrade, but Gil is distracted by the first part of that sentence. He grins, "Heart palpitations? I didn't know you cared."

"Don't be an idiot, Agatha would kill me if I let you die."

"She'd just make you bring me back." Gil thumps forward and sets the little clank down on his worktable. "What about it, huh? Want to try out a little flying machine?"

The little clank is already scuttling over his aerodynamic model for the engine casing. He decides that's probably a yes, and grabs Tarvek's wrist before he can run off again. "Stay. You can help with the model, at that size I'll have to replace the engine with a spring."

"I thought you wanted me to get more sleep. I have letters to two bombastic windbags and a conniving snake that need to be on the morning train."

"So, about ten minutes' work?"

Two hours later they at least have the wings working, and the little clank has done its best to install a tiny control system from their sketches. They wind it up. They set it on the edge of the worktable and give encouraging hand signals to the little clank. 

It cheerfully engages the clutch, setting the wings furiously flapping, and skids off the table. The model soars up, circles their heads twice almost too fast to follow, goes into a little swoop, pulls up, flips over, and promptly slams into the furnace pipe, with the familiar awful noise of crumpling metal.

Tarvek wheels sideways and grabs Gil by the shoulders. "And that," he declares as if there were something for the sentence to conjoin to, "is why you're supposed to _test_ your designs! Before you jump out of airships in them!"

On the brick ledges of the furnace, the little clank is extracting itself from the wreckage with a noise of squealing metal that sounds suspiciously like "wheeeee!".

\--


	3. Chapter 3

\--

The rain, which can't quite be called snow yet, is more dripping than pounding. It doesn't do a thing to drown out Gil and Dupree's argument. Agatha is glad, because for once they're having an interesting argument. "Come on," Dupree is saying, "it wouldn't even be hard to stick a clank-gun on top."

"Yes, and then you could very conveniently shoot your own propellor off!"

"So put two on the wings instead!"

"Where they'd interfere with airflow and reduce maneuverability, you know, you can't just jam these things together and expect them to still work the same way!" Gil's face is crumpled into a scowl and he's waving his hands in the air. Agatha can think of a few ways to get around the issue, but she's enjoying the show too much to interfere. 

Vanamonde is clearly not enjoying the show. He's staring fixedly out the windows at the somewhat-paved expanse of airstrip and scenic pines on the other side, fists tight in his coat. Frau Hraefelscu and Frau Rosa, soon-to-be-ex-owners of the soon-to-be-ex-stand of pines, are staring in covert fascination. The Corbettite reresentative, Brother Corwin, is staring in open fascination and scribbling notes. Well, that's only to be expected.

"Are you seriously saying you couldn't stick a clank gun inside some kind of fuselage so it wouldn't add drag? Or forget the propellor, I saw that model that just flaps its wings like a bird. That would take a gun."

"It barely goes faster than a dirigible! I thought running away afterwards was the point." Gil looks somewhere between indignant and murderous.

"Sure, the prototype doesn't. Are you telling me you can't make a faster one later?"

"Not and weaponize it. The recoil would destabilize the entire structure."

"Fine, forget the clank guns," Dupree says, although her scheming expression suggests she doesn't mean to forget, and may be thinking of some of the same workarounds as Agatha. "How about bombs? You could at least dump a bunch of grenades out of one, make life hell for anybody on the ground. Set everything on fire!"

"You could do that from an airship, and actually see where you were dropping them! Do the words ' _collateral damage_ ' actually fire any nuerons in your brain, or do you just want to set the whole world on fire and float over the ashes laughing?" 

"Aww, you sweet-talker." Dupree bats her eyelashes at Gil, which is a little unnerving. "You know I'm right. Tell him I'm right," she adds, wheeling toward Agatha. "It's just an engineering problem for the guns, right?"

"Well," Agatha admits, "it might be possible to work around, but really it would be simpler to just use death rays. No recoil, and you could build the resonators into the wings but put the power source inside the fuselage. Better accuracy at long ranges, too." She bites her lip. 

"See?" Dupree crows. " _She_ knows what we could do with flying machines!"

Gil theatrically throws his hands in the air. "Fine, and when you've designed a death ray that can actually be mass-produced, tell Dupree and she can put together the fastest, most terrifying airfleet in Europa. And tell me so I can retire to Antarctica. That might be far enough away."

The object of their argument is still perched crooked at one end of the airstrip, where it had nearly skidded off into the mud. Agatha's heart had been in her throat watching it land, but Dupree had lept out waving her arms in delight, and by the time they got inside had already begun making suggestions. Good ones, even if Gil keeps poking holes in them, Agatha is going to have to try them out with the version sixteen flying machine as soon as Gil has version seventeen built to take him places in a hurry, which she firmly reminds herself is not yet. Also not yet, death rays that can be built by anyone but Sparks. Some kinds of science seem doomed to be Mad. "I expect they'd still be too difficult to recharge for most people to bother with," she offers.

Brother Corwin chimes in, "I expect a Sparkwork recharger would be enough to let militia groups use them. Or some kind of replacable battery. They've been doing amazing things with lithium in Engl-"

"No!" It's not quite his Terrifying Madboy voice, but Gil's yell is loud enough to make them all flinch. "Nobody is doing anything with my flying machines that involves death rays unless they want to get dropped out an airship and blown to bits with one before they hit the ground! That is not what we are here for! _Understood_?" He grabs Corwin's notes away, gives them a quick glance, then begins to methodically rip them to bits. It's an effective form of punctuation.

What they are there for is to meet the engineers who'll be turning the aitstrip into an airdock fit for a fleet headquarters, and adding a crossloading crane that can reach the train terminal, and in general turning a tourist stopoff into something that can support industrial and military loads. It's either a very good thing they're running late because of the storm, or a bad thing they won't be a little scared of Gil after seeing that. Agatha's not sure which.

By the time the airship from Sturmhalten turns up, Vanamonde has acquired coffee for everyone but Agatha and Frau Rosa, which soothes tempers considerably. They talk for most of the afternoon and actually get several things sorted out, although it looks like the glass versus envelope-fabric hangar roof will only be decided once the ribs are up. Agatha finds herself arguing for glass, which had been what Tarvek wanted. It's not his fault that Doctor Medellus blew up the only land route to Florsheim, although she suspects Tarvek of using psychology to win the rock-paper-scissors match over who left to handle it. 

Eventually she and Vanamonde are the only ones left in the passenger lounge, staring at the elaborate paper models the engineers had unfolded for them. "My lady?" he ventures. 

She's staring at the models, trying to fit the pieces together in her mind. Elaborate in their own way, like an unfolding clank joint. "I'm wondering what's going to explode," she says.

"If we're lucky, nothing until they start laying foundation."

Agatha isn't quite so sure. The argument with Dupree is still echoing in her head. They're good ideas. Dupree is smart. But not uniquely smart, and not Sparky, and if Gil manages to get his flying machines to reproducability it's only a matter of time.

\--

Gilgamesh is laughing under his breath, because there is exactly one spot where he's ticklish and Tarvek, thanks to their experiment, knows where it is. He manages to keep one hand there while he kicks the door shut, tugs Gilgamesh's shirt off his shoulders, and presses him against the wall a little to the left of the obvious spot. Tarvek busies himself licking down his collarbone while Gil grabs at the wall, moans incoherently, and manages to make the twist of the random bit of brass decoration look completely accidental. Hah.

Gilgamesh takes a deep breath and grins down at Tarvek. "Turning shy again?"

"Don't be absurd." Rolling his eyes would be pointless from this angle; he settles for an annoyed huff. "There are plenty of other reasons to want privacy."

"And which of them involve having your hand down my trousers?"

Tarvek does roll his eyes at that, and leans back so Gil can see it. "It's good camouflage. Come on, even you can work this out. If we keep turning off its eyes in Agatha's bedroom, the Castle will get used to it and assume we're just here so I can ravish you without its making comments. And that way, if there's something we want to talk about without the Castle even knowing we talked, it won't _suspect_ anything."

Gilgamesh actually looks admiring at that. "You're such a weasel."

"Yes, I know, it's why you let me live."

"So what did you want to talk about?"

"Actually I did just want to ravish you," Tarvek admits. He shouldn't be blushing at that thought, but it's safe, Gilgamesh doesn't mind, and it's not telling him anything he doesn't already know. "If you didn't have any other plans?"

"Nah." Gil's grin is broad and inviting. "Go for it. Are we trying out whatever it is you were so sneaky about leaving under the bed? Because we both noticed, you know, especially when you were so embarassed about it. You should stop cleaning your glasses so much. It's practically cliche."

Tarvek grabs Gilgamesh's shirt and tugs it the rest of the way off. It's an effective distraction, especially followed by a kiss.

"We are," he murmurs breathlessly when they come up for air. "I picked them out for you."

"Ooh."

"Now let go of me so I can get them out. And get your trousers off."

By the time Tarvek emerges from under the bed with the ropes, Gil has taken off all his clothes except, for some reason, his socks, and is sprawled over Agatha's bed with the quilt pushed aside. He looks - leonine. Contented. Gorgeous. Except for the socks, which are in stripes of eye-bruising bright purple and green that should _not_ be used in clothing, _especially_ not together. Tarvek can't keep from wincing. "Please tell me you didn't pick those socks yourself." 

"They were a gift. From Dupree." Gilgamesh wiggles his toes. 

Dupree either has no _taste_ as well as no scruples, or the socks were some sort of prank. Either way, they don't fit the aesthetic. Tarvek takes a deep breath. "Take them off," he says, in as commanding a tone as he can manage when he's this distracted.

But it's apparently good enough, because Gil toes them off. Then he makes a grab for the ropes, snickering. "Are those curtain pulls?"

"Obviously not anymore," Tarvek informs him. Dammit, he got rid of the tassels. But they're soft, and not particularly strong, and most relevantly here and now, a shade of dusty gold which will look particularly nice against Gilgamesh's skin. And a tangled mess. They get them unsnarled in relatively short order, and when Tarvek tells Gilgamesh to lie down and be _patient_ for once, he obeys, without argument. 

Tarvek long since decided not to think about why there are so many rings discreetly tucked into the carvings on Agatha's headboard; objectively they're less disturbing than the skulls. And it's convenient now, as he loops the ropes through them and ties off a knot he can undo one-handed if necessary. The next bit takes Gilgamesh's cooperstion, but he doesn't protest when Tarvek lifts his hands to the headboard, only makes a whuffling almost-laugh. "You look hungry," he says. 

"Only metaphorically." He smirks as he gets the ropes around Gil's right wrist, then down his forearm, knotted, around the biceps and up for another knot over his shoulder, holding his arm at just the right angle. By the time he's got the other arm done, stopping after each twist to press a kiss to his skin, Gilgamesh's breathing has gone quivery and shallow. Tarvek finishes up with a kiss to his collarbone. "Comfortable? Nothing too tight?"

"It's fine." Gilgamesh is tensing a little, testing the ropes, but they won't give unless he tries much harder. He's still smirking, but his breath is a little ragged and his eyes are half-shut, distracted. Tarvek can't keep from feeling a little smug at that, in between the stupidly sentimental warmth that Gilgamesh is _letting_ him do this, trusts him, or at least wants to please him, far enough not to fight back. 

Right. Carry on. The next part would be easier sitting up, but that's alright, it just gives him an excuse to touch. He loops the third piece of rope through the knot at Gil's shoulder, drapes one end across his body until he can wrap it around his thigh - Gilgamesh hisses at the touch, but doesn't protest - then wraps the other end behind his neck. Catches the first end, wraps it behind his chest. It's as careful work in its way as a feather-stitch; he takes the opportunity to lean close, press his hands to Gil's chest and feel the feverish warmth there, punctuate each loop with a kiss. When he finishes off with another knot over the hipbone, the ropes zigzag over Gil's body like a lightning bolt. Tarvek sits back to admire his handiwork, taking careful breaths.

The look that Gilgamesh is giving him makes Tarvek want to throw himself on top of him and smother him with kisses, but he settles for undoing his shirt. He has _plans_. He throws the shirt aside, then inches down the bed until he can pick up Gil's foot and press a kiss to his ankle. That gets a gasp, and a whisper of, "What are you doing all the way down there? Come up here and kiss me, you lummox." 

"Appreciating you properly," Tarvek informs him blandly. "You would never hold still for it if you weren't tied to the bed."

Gilgamesh kicks him in the ear, but not very hard.

But by the time Tarvek has worked up to his stomach, carefully avoiding the obvious places, Gilgamesh seems genuinely relaxed. He's breathing soft and steadily, eyes closed, making little noises of appreciation whenever Tarvek presses his fingers or his lips to a sensitive spot. All the tension in his body is in his legs, feet pressed to the mattress and rocking up a little with each breath. Maybe Tarvek should have kept going with the ropes, but he suspects there's a limit to how helpless Gilgamesh can be and feel comfortable - which might not mean they couldn't take the game that far, _uncomfortable_ and _enjoyable_ aren't mutually exclusive, but there would need to be another embarassing conversation with Agatha there first, and it's certainly not the point today. He pauses to reach up and wind his fingers with Gilgamesh's, giving them a comforting squeeze. "You're so beautiful," he whispers into his ribs.

"You're a romantic sap." It's practically a purr.

Tarvek decides not to dignify that with a response. All the answers he can think of would only prove the point. Besides, he's _busy_. 

He gets back to work. Gilgamesh goes back to wordless noises of anticipation, little gasps and drawn-out moans that it doesn't seem like he should have the breath for. At least he's relaxed into it, letting himself feel. He hasn't even accusrd Tarvek of being a tease. Which is _not_ the same thing as preferring things slow and comfortable, and Tarvek is glad that Gil is relaxed enough to indulge him.

He goes up the arms and stops to lick a slow line up each of Gilgamesh's fingers before he drapes them together for a long kiss on the lips. For all that it's Gil wrapped in golden ropes, Tarvek feels a little trapped, mesmerized, by the way he smiles like the warm afternoon sun. That's a cliche for a reason. Warmth and plenty of time, and Tarvek could no more turn away from that smile than a leaf could turn away from the sun.

Dammit, he's blushing again. When they finally run out of breath for the kiss Tarvek goes for the obvious place, if only to hide it.

Eventually Gil's moans turn to desperate gasps. When he finishes Tarvek wipes his mouth off and crawls up the bed to let his hands loose, which is all he can manage before he collapses to the bed, breathing carefully and trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

Eventually Gilgamesh informs him, "You still have your trousers on."

"I am _aware_ of that fact."

"Don't you want ..." 

"That was not the _point_. The point was to appreciate you properly." He's aching for a touch, honestly, but he can't bring himself to interrupt their comfortable half-embrace long enough to get one.

Gilgamesh is probably rolling his eyes, impossible though it is to tell from here. "Suit yourself. But you know, if Agatha were here she'd yell at you."

"She won't be back for hours. Too busy catching up with Glassvitch."

"Which you should really be sitting in on," Gil inforns him, as if he hadn't weighed the idea already. "I mean, once they get around to talking about the university charter - it's your pet project, isn't it? Shouldn't you be sticking your nose in? Not that this wasn't fun, but we could have done it anytime, and -"

Tarvek resists the urge to slap him. "They'll be _catching up_. We shouldn't intrude."

Gil tightens his arms just enough to drive the breath from Tarvek's lungs. "Stay until she turns up, then?"

They're in Castle Heterodyne, in Agatha's bedroom, tangled in a sweaty heap in Agatha's bed, and he needs a bath and enough privacy to deal with things himself, and it's barely nine in the evening. And the steady, slowing thump of Gilgamesh's heartbeat is doing absurd things to his brain. "Alright," Tarvek mumbles. "I can stay."

\--

The first snowfall hits Mechanicsburg harder and earlier than Paris, with a a week left in November and caravans still trailing through the gates. Gil joins in the traditional inter-Jägercorps-and-all-comers snowball fight and scores three hats, plus a direct hit in the face on General Zog. Then Violetta dumps an icicle down his collar, which is enough for him to retire from the field to look for a dry shirt. 

He finds Agatha and Tarvek in the Parlor of Menacing Skulls - they really need to redecorate - curled together under the fur of something that was probably mostly bear. "There's room for three if you like," Agatha tells him. "I think this is the only warm spot in the room."

It's tempting, but - "I'm going back out to watch as soon as your cook gets the hot cider made. Want to come cheer on your valiant warriors?"

"Which ones?"

"Any of us. You're the Heterodyne." He's not sure how best to finish that thought, the whole town has fallen hard in loyalty with her and she doesn't like to play favorites, but it shouldn't matter over a snowball fight, they'd just like to see her there, and it doesn't matter anyway because she's climbing out of the cocoon of fur. Tarvek makes a plaintive little noise.

"Oh, don't you start," she tells him. "Are you coming?"

He rolls his eyes. "I am staying inside until spring, like a sensible person."

A week later they get news of a riot in Bad Halstat, followed shortly by news that the count of Bad Halstat has blown up most of a mountain in the course of his attempts at putting down the rebellion with modified lava cannons. It's not technically outside the limits of local sovereignty, but it bespeaks such sheer stupidity that Agatha takes a few troop transports full of Jägers to support the rebellion, because even if it really was just a riot, it will be a rebellion by now. 

"Another trial case for democracy when she's done, I suppose," Tarvek mutters. "What's the point of being an evil despot if you just let people run themselves into the ground without any help? Not everyone knows how to build a government."

"Reduces your workload?"

"There's such a thing as delegation."

"That would be more convincing a line from someone who slept more than five nights last week." The library is darker than it should be, from the snow piling up on its dome. Gil reaches over the table to take his hands; Tarvek's fingers are so cold Gil finds himself checking they're not turning blue. "Are you seriously reading all the university applications yourself?" It's always educational to listen to Tarvek rant about principles of government, but they've had the argument over democracy already. 

"Of course. The first class will decide if it's viable. We don't want students who'll find out Mechanicsburg is too strange to live in, or who are only trying to transfer because they think we're desperate enough to take them. Serious scholars."

"Are you offering automatic admission to Sparks?" A lot of research universities did - maybe all, Gil hadn't checked. 

"Funnelling talent is the _point_. And with some care about the rest of the admissions, they can meet some sensible, stable minions here and live a little longer for it."

No wonder he's obsessed with going over the applications personally, if he's _matchmaking_. Gil tries not to snicker. "You always did go in for social engineering."

Tarvek glances around, so quickly it's almost invisible, but they're on the lower floor and the cataloguers are working on an upper balcony today; the sounds of a quiet argument over whether the Third Treatise on Political Education is _really_ by Cinna of Thebes are drifting down, muffled by the scree of displaced books. Tarvek quietly says, "I'm going for some more obvious engineering, too. Preference for women and open constructs."

"But not mentioning it. Pure coincidence. Funny how that works."

"Exactly. There are vanishingly few constructs applying, though." He scowls. 

Gil narrows his eyes. "By which you mean?"

"Four from Mechanicsburg, all of whom Vanamonde talked to for me. Three from the _entire rest of the continent_. I don't suppose you know any Castle Wulfenbach crew who might like to go back to school?"

"No, you may not poach my best people to make a point," Gil informs him. But he relents a little, as usual, at Tarvek's purposeful scowl. "I'll see that anyone who wants a ground transfer hears about it, though."

"Thank you."

It's delivered like an insult. Tarvek doesn't show any sign of taking his hands back, though. Gil takes advantage of the leverage to lean over the table and steal a kiss; the resulting strangled sqwawk is a thing of beauty. "And I'll help with the applications," he says before he can stop himself. "There can't be that many left- "

"Four hundred twelve."

"Good, we can finish by midnight. Maybe go out for a drink afterwards? It'll be like old times."

The expression on Tarvek's face at that is a very strange one, and for a moment Gil thinks he's said something wrong, but then it transmutes back into the familiar scowl. "As long as your mad pirate captain isn't invited."

"You mean my mad pirate _admiral._ " Tarvek's scowl deepens. "Relax, she's in Vienna." One of these days, Gil thinks, he has to find out what happened that made Tarvek hate Dupree so much. Nothing Gil saw in Paris was really worth holding a grudge over for five-and-a-half years. Eight, by Dupree's count, even.

And Gil's count. A third of his life. That thought is enough to leave him staring moodily at his glass that night, while Tarvek cheerfully flirts with Gkika's waitresses, and fretting as they stumble back up the secret passage. He can barely remember what it felt like to be so young and reckless and - alright, he remembers the loneliness. That took years to shake. He finally found Agatha. Then he lost her twice, and all Zoing's determined affection couldn't make up for the remembered thrill of having a _partner_ , someone whose thoughts could roll along with his like a pinion to a ring gear.

It hadn't mattered how he felt then; there was work to do. Dupree had kept him moving, in her relentless and insulting and devoted way, if not exactly sane. If Dupree ever found out how grateful Gil still is for that she'd laugh herself sick. 

None of that matters anymore. He's had Agatha back long enough the memory should have faded. She'll probably finish up at Bad Halstat in a week, and by then, Gil tells himself, he'll be over his fit of self-pity. He pours Tarvek into Agatha's bed and tucks both quilts over him, and heads downstairs to get a few hours in with the Version Seventeen.

The snow turns into a driving rain, then to graupel, by the time Agatha gets back. She dumps her sodden coat on the hall floor for the laundry to get later, and drags Gil and Tarvek both beneath the mostly-bearskin to warm up while she relates the highlights of her trip, ending with an impassioned rant about he weather coming home. "At least the _lava cannons_ left everything _warm_ and _toasty_! I had to turn the natatorium into a recirculating magma pool so they'd have somewhere to cook. Do you know that idiot collapsed their coal mine? Who knows how much equipment is buried in there."

"Er. He didn't collapse it _on_ anyone, did he?" Gil is almost certain not, or Agatha's story would have ended with the Count being given to Füst as a chew toy instead of sent to Buda in chains to explain things to his angry creditors. 

"No, they had the sense to drop tools and run." Gil rubs her shoulder, and she glowers. "But they need the coal. I should have carried that idiot to Buda behind the airship. See how _he_ likes high-altitude ice accretion with possible impeller clogging." Something to check on for the Version Seventeen; Gil makes a mental note. Will the wings move enough to keep ice from forming? Agatha goes on, "And of course there weren't any trains and we had to come back to town in a carriage with leaky windows. I thought the Castle was supposed to be _warm_ , it's got a _methane vent_ to burn." The last sentence is directed at the ceiling.

"Mistress, allow me to suggest there are any number of ways you and your consorts could warm up, and some of them might even result in the continuation of the line -"

"Right, exactly," Tarvek cuts in, a little too brightly. "We should continue the hydronic lines through the rooms, and get a more even exchange. Starting with the armory. It's not fit for books right now. Something _has_ to be done about the humidity in there."

"Oooh," Agatha says, brightening up a little herself. "Like what you had in Sturmhalten?"

"Exactly! It's already a _tested design_! We can't go wrong! Violetta will -"

From an unusually shadowed patch near the fireplace, a familiar voice informs them, "Not be helping this time. Get your own minions." 

She must have come in with Agatha, right? It always makes Gil twitch when she lurks like that. He tightens his arm over Agatha's shoulders, and shuts his eyes so he can't give himself a headache looking for her. 

Tarvek smoothly continues, "Tell you it's not as complicated as it looks, which I'm sure Herr Von Zinzer will find a great relief. And if you ask nicely," he adds to the ceiling, "I'll give you an override on the thermostatic valves."

\--

There are awkward conversations that only get harder if you put them off, and there are awkward conversations that get easier if you put them off, and the one that's been lurking in the back of Agatha's mind qualifies as both in different ways. Easier, because after a year with surprisingly few people trying to invade and better than twelve whole weeks that all three of them managed to spend at home, they've gotten _comfortable_ with each other, in a way the adventures that threw them together hadn't left the breath for. Harder, because the longer she puts it off the more ways she can think of for the conversation to go horribly wrong.

But there's at least one way it won't go wrong: the Castle doesn't get a say in it. The Castle doesn't even get to know they're having this conversation. And that, by now, is _completely unremarkable_. It's a good thing Tarvek is such a weasel. He barely looks up from his book when she and Gil push through the door, stumbling as they try not to let go of each other, and only to mutter, "Get a room, you two."

"We have one," Gil points out, beaming. "You're in it."

Tarvek throws a slipper at them. It misses, bounces off the doorframe, and hits the bit of brass decoration just hard enough to turn it. She knew she could count on him. 

"Good one," Gil offers.

"Well, I can't do it too often or it will get suspicious." He swings his legs off the sofa. It occurs to Agatha, not for the first time, that Tarvek looks very nice in a bathrobe, although it doesn't hurt that he wears such nice robes - today's is deep green with gold embroidery on the cuffs and hem, in a trilobite-studded pattern that probably means he found it in the wardrobes here and it used to be her grandfather's. Not a comfortable thought. Well, it still suits him. She settles herself in the armchair. Gil sprawls onto the other end of the sofa, and Tarvek pats his knee. "Agatha? Are you alright? You look nervous."

"I am, a little." She takes a deep breath. "Which is ridiculous, for all the Castle keeps going on about it there's no reason to worry yet, my father was forty before he got married and things still worked out. And it's not as if we have _time_ right now. But I don't suppose we'll ever have time to raise a child properly. Not as long as people keep blowing things up." She sighs. 

Gil looks completely befuddled, although she can't really blame him after that ramble. Tarvek, though, looks suddenly enlightened. "But you at least want to talk about _when_ we have children?"

The sudden comprehension on Gil's face turns into a scowl, and he cuffs Tarvek on the ear. "Hey! She hasn't even said _whether_."

"I presume we wouldn't be having this conversation in that case." He's blushing a little, despite his arch tone, and he takes off his glasses to polish on his sleeve. "Is that right, Agatha?"

"Right." She folds her arms and glares at nothing in particular. "Well, I suppose it's still _whether_ for you two, if you're dead set against the idea I can work something else out."

Gil frowns. "Like what? I don't think the corporal duplicator is designed to make someone younger - " 

"I don't think that's what she meant, Gilgamesh," Tarvek interrupts, and by now his blush is obvious. "Finding a concubine would be much simpler."

Agatha is beginning to see the advantages of Tarvek's glasses-cleaning habit, because it's an unimpeachable reason not to look people in the eye. She settles for staring at the rug. It's a nice rug, despite the interlaced pattern of tibias and ribs. Soft, thick, and warm. "I'm not planning on that, either," she tells them. "Maybe figure out how to adjust the Castle's blood test, then declare Maxinia my heir." It might or might not work, it seems ridiculous to risk, but so does the idea of leaving Mechanicsburg without a guardian. If they don't relax the definition of 'Heterodyne' someday, they'll run out. It's taken several miracles for the family to survive this long.

"Well," Gil eventually says, with a grin. "If you put it like that, we'd better say yes to spare the world from the scourge of God-Empress Maxinia." He throws an arm over Tarvek's shoulders. "What do you think? I always wanted a big family."

"That might be an excellent idea, under the circumstances," Tarvek says, in the slow, careful voice of someone doing calculations in their head. "Does Mechanicsburg go by absolute primogeniture?"

Agatha isn't sure what she was expecting, but that wasn't it. She blinks a few times, trying to work out - oh. _Oh._ "I think," she says, "it goes by the Heterodyne's word."

"That simplifies things. We can make sure the titles stay combined." 

"Don't the Fifty Families use male-preference primogeniture?" Gil's leaning back on the sofa, but there's tension in his shoulders. 

Tarvek rolls his eyes. "Yes, which is why Agatha and I will have exactly one and only one child, who can be sure to inherit both Mechanicsburg and the Lightning Crown, and you and Agatha can then have however many you like. Do try to keep up."

Gil looks delighted at this idea. It's an elegant solution to the diplomatic concerns, at least. Which leaves the incredibly messy personal questions. Agatha wishes she'd thought to bring tea; she could sip it while she collected her thoughts. As it is she's reduced to wringing her hands. 

They're looking at her, both of them, as if this were only _her_ decision. Well, it is her womb. Unless she builds an artificial - no, _focus_ , that's not the point, and besides it's not as if it hasn't been tried by dozens of biologically inclined Sparks, including a surprising number of men. It's just almost impossible to sustain the necessary environment _long_ enough. Which is irrelevant anyway; she'll feel _safer_ using proven methods. 

And she needs to say something, because they're looking at her, and their hands are pressed together white-knuckled like they're waiting for bad news. "If you're both okay with that, we'll arrange it that way," she tells them. Alright. Easy part over. "But I don't know about the big family. Raising children is a lot of work, two might be all we could handle, I don't want our kids to think we're too busy with more important things ..." She trails off. That would hurt both ways; even the edge of the thought hurts. Anyway, Gil and Tarvek are talking over each other, too taken aback by the idea to wait for the other to finish a sentence. Tarvek looks horrified, Gil closer to plaintive. In a few breaths they manage to stumble to a stop and look sideways at each other.

It's Gil who speaks again next. "Absolutely not. But there's three of us, so that should be easier too." That's their running joke. There's three of us, we _can_ be three places at once. There's three of us, why don't we just vote on it? There's three of us, we can each work half as hard as you did and still get things done, _Gilgamesh_. There's three of us, that counts as strength in numbers for Sparks. Which is something like true. It may be a Heterodyne Empire in name, but Agatha can't imagine not having both of them to help. 

Tarvek is eagerly nodding. "We have some _terrible_ examples to avoid."

"My parents did perfectly well," Agatha points out. And they're doing it again with Maxinia, although Lilith keeps making half-joking remarks about how much of a handful she is. She's certainly the loudest three-year-old Agatha's ever met, and she gets everywhere, including secret passages and pit traps, with no worse results than scraped knees. The prospect of Aunt Maxinia is less terrifying than God-Empress Maxinia mostly by virtue of scope. "And I'm sure they could give us good advice. I'm sure they could help out, too, Maxinia will probably be a little less of a handful by the time we get around to having our own."

Gil is sprawled back on the sofa now, cross-armed and pensive. "If you look at it like that, we've got all of Mechanicsburg to help out. It's not like they wouldn't be glad to. So there's no real reason to wait until we're not busy, because that will never happen."

"We could at _least_ wait until we've figured out what might go wrong and how to make it _not_." Tarvek looks like he's barely holding back the urge to smack Gil for being an idiot. "Horrible examples to avoid, remember? At least until we've made it to the Po Valley. Things will slow down then; we're not stupid enough to try for Rome."

"Oh, you're not going to hold out for Königsburg?"

"After that deal with the Melting Lords? We could save a lot of troops and trouble waiting for their own mammoth cavalry to eat them dry -"

"Or start a revolt, if they don't get the gold reserves sorted."

"Exactly. And that could be in two years or twenty, depending on whether they manage to debug the triticomat. I'm not waiting twenty years."

Agatha feels a little dizzy listening to them. She'd managed to study science even when she could barely think, but politics had never occured to her - or her parents - and politics still feels unnatural, and it's a painful reminder that her boys were brought up to rule, that she'll forever be catching up. "There's really not any rush," she tells them. "I mean, practical concerns aside, we, well, we should have a little more time for the three of us first. We don't have to decide anything right now. I just thought we should start _thinking_ about children. Really thinking, whatever the Castle says."

"Agatha," Gil says, and now they're doing that thing they do sometimes, where they look at her with the same expression, as if they've read each other's minds and come to some private mutual conclusion. "Come on, did you seriously think we'd say no?"

She takes the three steps to the sofa, wraps one arm around each of them, and pulls them close, where they don't have to look at each other's faces. "No," she says into Tarvek's hair. "But I had to ask."

\-- 

The library almost looks like a _library_ again, which is good; they'll need it in January. And they have an actual _catalogue_ now, whereas generations of Heterodynes had apparently relied on the Castle remembering where things were. It's sufficiently upset by this to have gone into a vicious sulk and refused to speak inside the library for more than a week. If they're very lucky, it will keep it up all next year.

Tarvek knows better than to get his hopes up, but right now he's hedging his bets by showing off the mostly-finished catalogue to Agatha. He's invited Fraulein Snaug and Professora Baumhund as well. Snaug to find the obvious ways to break it, which is a rare and valuable knack of hers; Baumhund because she can come up with the obvious improvements. Of course the students will render it a magnificent perversion of science beyond imagining when they arrive _en masse_ , but one likes to get the simple things done. For example, right now Snaug is typing at terrifying speed, making the drawers slam open and shut, the dynamic retrieval rods bend and twang alarmingly, and the interpolation stack - just as he expected. Something jams with a awful crunching noise, and the interpolation stack comes apart in a blizzard of little cards. 

"Oh dear," Snaug says. She doesn't actually sound sorry.

The librarians certainly do. Two of the senior shelvers dive for the cards; Curator Klovitz, more sensibly, takes two steps back and folds her arms. Tarvek sighs; that failure came a little closer to catastrophic than he was hoping for. "I think that concludes the demonstration. Professora, you're the least mad one here. Any suggestions?"

Baumhund squints at the exploded mess. Finally she offers, "At a minimum, cover the stacks. That way when something goes wrong, they'll stay in order instead of going all over the floor."

"Ooh, that's easy." Snaug brightens. "Glass or wood? We've got leftover -" 

She breaks off, minion instincts kicking in, as Tarvek raises his hand. "We can start building once we've finished planning. There must be more improvements?"

One of the senior shelvers declares, going a little red, "This is the same catalog design we've used at the Calais branch for seventy-three years! Without incident! It was designed by -"

"A Spark?" Baumhund raises her eyebrow. "I'm amazed you managed to duplicate it at all. If it didn't start failing, that would be a miracle."

The resulting argument is hilariously loud, and draws in Snaug and Curator Klovitz. Not Agatha, though; she watches silently, looking somewhere between amused and dismayed. Tarvek steps back to sit beside her, and quietly twines their fingers together. "Academia is so fascinating, don't you think?" he whispers into her ear. 

She muffles her chuckle in her sleeve. "I was there for the Great Historigraphical Riots at TPU. This is nothing. They havn't even brought out the glue guns."

"I hope they know better than to use glue guns in the main collection." He doesn't bother coming up with a threat; telling the High Curators would be more than sufficient. "Especially someone else's collection."

"The Castle would stop them before they could try. It gets possesive."

Tarvek leans in close enough to actually whisper into Agatha's ear, to keep from being overheard. "Do you think it might get _jealous_? Should we put the catalog in a dead zone?"

"N-ooooo," Agatha slowly says back, "the armory will do, I think, but maybe we should put up blast shields once the students get here?"

After they go and make some measurements, they decide it would be better to give the catalog one of the alcoves in the Hall of Mirrors. This means stepping up the plans to disable all the traps, but as Agatha loudly and deliberately announces, they would have done it in a year or two regardless, to make more shelf space. The Castle is apparently still sulking; it doesn't answer. 

Agatha scowls. "And the Castle will just have to get used to it," she continues firmly. "We're not splitting the collection. If Gil's right and in a hundred years this place is entirely composed of library, it can like it or lump it."

"Gilgamesh said that?" Tarvek frowns, trying to do the calculations in his head, but collection development is more art than science and this place isn't exactly Eucludian when it's in a bad mood. Besides, a round number like that might have been rhetorical. He settles for, "Good to know he's starting to like the idea."

"Well, you were right, I _need_ a university if I'm going to rule effectively." She's looking so stern and determined that Tarvek is stricken with a sudden urge to fall to his knees and kiss her hand. Or possibly boots. He doesn't, of course; Agatha wouldn't like it, not here and now. He settles for bowing his head. She goes on, "I don't know how the Baron did it. It's all very well keeping tame Sparks and just giving them minions to distract them, maybe you get fewer explosions that way, but it's not nearly as efficient as letting them distract each _other_." 

Which was half of his original point - they needed a talent sink, something for the madder and less megalomaniac types to fill their days with instead of distracting Agatha with research proposals or minor rebellions - but only half. Tarvek lets himself brush his fingers against hers, asking permission, and Agatha turns her hand over and grabs on. "I think Baron Klaus was too concerned with stability to take chances," he says. "And he certainly didn't understand the virtues of _collaboration_." There's the other half.

"There's three of us, we have to collaborate." Agatha rolls her eyes and lets his hand go, to start sketching a shape in the air. It looks like the spiral of the Library stairs. "Armory, Hall of Mirrors, impluvium, seraglio is staying living quarters, what else can we convert? Gil thought the conservatory might make a nice reading room."

Tarvek bristles. "Gilgamesh has a grudge against your specimen nepenthe and no understanding of _humidity_ levels. And no respect for books. Did he tell you that once when we were in Paris, he covered a book with _paracrysoprase_ and ripped the _pages_ out for _monster lures_? They revoked his library card With Extreme Prejudice! That takes talent!" 

By now she's smothering a laugh in her hand. For some reason Agatha always laughs about the things Gilgamesh got up to in Paris; perhaps it's the perspective. "Alright, I'll ignore him."

"Excellent idea."

"If humidity is a problem, I suppose the Tower of Prisms is off limits?"

"Unless you move the cistern, yes. But there are a lot of Heterodyne treasures in the library that really don't need to be pawed at," he says instead of 'displayed publically' to nudge the Castle's ego, "and the Tower of Prisms might be a good place for a trophy room?"

"Good idea. We can get extra shelves to replace the trophy cases. But there must be somewhere else to expand to. It would be nice to have some books published _after_ the Other War." The mirrors are gently warping behind her, making the train of their reflections ripple. Tarvek won't be sorry at all to see them go. 

It's going fast. Better than he dared hope. They'll have students by February, buildings by July - a gathering hall and some purpose-built teaching labs, that is; lecture halls they'll have as soon as Vanamonde finishes buying the dozen promising buildings whose owners are wiling to move to the outer ring - and a modern library in, well, call it a year. Collection development is an art. But Agatha will have a university to br proud of, and by the time their children are old enough -

Well. They might still prefer TPU or the Academia Venitia or Paris, but it won't be because Mechanicsburg University has a bad reputation.

Tarvek goes to bed that night, but once again he can't sleep. It's snowfall-quiet outside, frost making patterns on his window. Somewhere far below the town is mostly sleeping.

 _Very_ far below. They should install pneumatic lifts, so people don't have to trudge up the causeway all the time. Specifically, they should get Mezzasalma to do it before he offers the legs of the noble spider to every student who turns up with a walking cane. It would be more convenient for small cargo, too, and -

Something to delegate in the morning, Tarvek tells himself, not get up and sketch because he can't sleep.

He should give up and take sedatives. This is probably the one building in Europa where a drugged sleep wouldn't be an open invitation for a dagger to the chest. That might even be enough to let him sleep the night through in Agatha's bed, which Agatha would like, as long as she didn't know how he did it. Gilgamesh - almost certainly wouldn't get jealous. He doesn't seem capable of it. 

If Tarvek were inclined to be a soppy romantic, which he's not, he would attribute it to Gilgamesh having so warm a soul he didn't need to wrap it up in reassurances, so much love it spilled over to anyone Agatha smiled at. As it is he wonders if it's desperation. If Gil would acquiese to anything Agatha demanded rather than risk losing her love. Tarvek would, if it were required, if the idea of Gilgamesh not being with them didn't fill him with cold terror. 

In which case, better not to intrude on them. It's not as if he doesn't have plenty of reasons not to sleep.

He gets up as quietly as he can manage, pulls on robe and slippers, and heads downstairs. The upper floors of the donjon are quiet, of course - they don't have any diplomatic guests right now, and the servants wouldn't intrude at night - but below the level of the walls, he has to fade away from a Jäger showing his sweetheart up to the roof to stargaze, and two footmen with an inexplicable vat of soup, and once he passes the armory Curator Klovitz pacing the hallway and muttering, apparently as sleepless as Tarvek. Presumably not for the same reasons. There's light and noise from the Labrys Gallery, where a bevy of clerks are correlating census records to tax records in hopes of finishing before Yule.

The library, though, is quiet. Tarvek can just make out the spiral of shelves, by the eldritch glow of the mysterious glowing eyes Tympanus Heterodyne installed on the handrails for ambiance, centuries ago.

He was never in the Immortal Library when it was dark, because it was never dark. They were too far underground to keep to a diurnal schedule. He had spent three days recuperating in one of their guestrooms, after the incident that got Gilgamesh's library card revoked the first time, and passed it sending the pages on entertaining quests to the Closed Stacks and flirting with Jon and Melissa, whose offer in retrospect he should have taken. The Immortal Library felt so _alive_ , even at one remove. A place of fiery purpose, a place for people to grow. 

This library, well, this one just _is_ alive.

Tarvek whispers into the darkness, "Castle?"

There's silence just long enough that he almost decides it's still sulking, but then there's a sudden bright light and the rug jerks forward. He makes sure to scream very loudly and wave his arms in the air as he goes over, to make it a little less obvious how lightly he lands. Not strictly necessary, but old habits die hard. The Castle is making its creaking equivalent of a laugh by the time he gets his glasses back on.

The dome is reflecting violet in the lamplight now. Tarvek crosses his arms and glares at it. "Really, Castle? That was just _juvenile_."

"Well, let me make it up to you by finding your book," the Castle answers. "Oh, wait. You _rearranged_ them all."

"Please, I'm sure you have better things to do than play glorified library catalog to a bunch of teenagers and academics." He snorts, and rolls to his feet. "But if it means that much to you we'll hook you up to the new catalog so you can keep track. We have to rebuild it anyway."

The Castle's next words are oddly subdued, almost wistful. "The books here are Heterodyne treasures. Mine to guard."

"We agree on something, then," Tarvek tells it. "I'm sure you'll look after them as well as you have - " he bites back what he was about to say, he'd never live it down - "all the family."

\--

There's just enough evening light to turn the window orange, and the room is overheated, hypocaust dampers open all the way. Gil took his shirt off straightaway. Tarvek's hair is in disarray, and his skin flushed - heat, embarassment, or both - but not sweaty yet. 

"This is undignified," he mumbles into the desk.

Gil smirks, and lays a soft open-handed slap across his thighs. The muscles tighten involuntarily in response, and his arms jerk back until the slack on the ropes is gone, the loops around his wrists biting into the skin. He'll have more bruises than Gil really meant to give him, but Gil doesn't think he'll mind. "That's the _point_."

Tarvek growls, but relaxes a little. His eyes are half-shut in something that's trying to be a vicious glare, and suceeding only in looking sleepy. "I grant that," he says, and that has to be embarassment, he got so red so suddenly, "but you needn't sound quite so smug, _Professor._ Someday the shoe will be on other foot." 

It's such a cheesy line Gil almost laughs aloud, and not even the mwa-ha-ha kind of laugh he might pass off as im character. He goes for an equally cheesy answer, and proclaims, "But for today _I_ have the upper hand - " he makes the point with another open-handed slap - "and if you ever want to graduate - " left hand this time, just to keep things unpredictable - "you'll do as I say for once." 

"For once." 

He manages to make it sound resentful, but the way his hands are clenched makes it obvious how much he's enjoying himself. "Do be quiet," Gil says, and steps back for a second to admire the sight of Tarvek flushed and trembling, pressed against the desk. Professor and student was a good idea, nothing that would make either of them twitch, just an excuse for a bit of banter while they have fun. Gil is glad they managed the embarassing conversations, because he likes this sort of game more than he'd ever expected to. But then, he'd never completely understood the appeal of sex until he and Agatha had finally gotten around to having some, after which it all seemed so obvious - how you had to be so close you could feel every move your partner made, the easy synchronization of your breaths, the _trust_. It was almost as good as a mutual fugue.

And this takes trust, too, so it makes sense that it feels good in some of the same ways. He can't help but smile, at how easily Tarvek had yeilded to him. He looks desperate now, but he's keeping quiet. Right. Keep going. He hits Tarvek across the shoulderblades this time, hard enough for his fingernails to leave red lines on his too-pale skin. Tarvek jerks, but doesn't make noise, so Gil does it again, and the second time there's a whimper.

"I should have known you couldn't follow a simple instruction," Gil growls.

The noise Tarvek makes at that is small and pained and makes Gil wonder if he shouldn't have said that, but it's followed up with, "Isn't there anything else you want, Professor?"

"Well," Gil says, and starts undoing his trousers. "I might be persuaded."

"I should have known," Tarvek growls, but he shifts a little, trying to brace against the desk, and doesn't flinch when Gil slaps him one last time for the smart remark. He lowers his head, then lifts it again, looking disgruntled. What - oh. Gil plucks his glasses away and sets them on the corner of the desk, and Tarvek takes a deep breath, then presses his cheek to the desk and closes his eyes. "Do your worst, then."

"Be nice enough and I might give you extra credit," Gil assures him, and leans down to lick at the sweat gathering on his neck. 

It doesn't take long after that. Tarvek doesn't even try to stay quiet, and Gil muffles smug laughter in his shoulder and pins his wrists before he can rub them raw tugging on the ropes, and neither of them say anything else coherent until they climax.

Finally Tarvek mutters into the table, "How was that? Passing grade?"

"Full credit. C'mon, you need a revision session."

"That does _not_ fit the metaphor," Tarvek protests, but his voice is quavering and weak. "Not if it happens after the test, although we were a little fuzzy on background -"

"It's _sex_ , not improvisational theatre." Gil pulls the ropes loose, and picks Tarvek up from the desk - his skin leaves a sweat-mark across the blotter. "Do you have to take everything so seriously?"

Tarvek harrumps as Gil eases them both to the bed, and fishes out the towel he'd left under the pillow. "If something is worth doing at all, it's worth doing with care and attention to de - aaaah." He hisses at the touch. "For example, did you _look_ for the scratchiest towel in the castle? Not that I don't admire the effort, but there are limits to masochism -" 

"You're just sensitive," Gil interjects, smirking. "And you certainly weren't complaining about the rope earlier. Speaking of which, let me see your hands."

"That was different," Tarvek mutters. But he lets Gil examine his wrists, and only hisses a little at the touch. They're not bloody, but the marks are obvious. Good thing Tarvek tends not to roll his sleeves up even when he's working. Agatha would understand, but anyone else - Von Zinzer, for example - might take it the wrong way. And for all that Tarvek is pointedly public with his affection for Gil, some things should stay private.

They should have used the curtain pulls again. There's no reason to -

"If I minded I would have told you," Tarvek snaps. "Don't you trust me?"

That is both a low blow, and slightly inexplicable, since - "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to. I could tell from your face." Tarvek sighs, and wraps his arms around Gil, leaning closer. "Gilgamesh, havn't we established by now that fretting pointlessly over the chance of hurting each other is my job?"

Gil rolls his eyes, but returns the embrace, folding his hands together so Tarvek can't pull away. "Aren't we supposed to collaborate on things now?"

"We're allowed to play to our strengths. You do hideous unstable flying machines and optimism, Agatha does clankwork and sheer bloodyminded determination, I do diplomacy and fretting." He's shaking a little - just leftover muscle tension, Gil gauges, and shifts a litttle to press knuckles against his spine. "Someone has to look out for you two."

There are any number of things Gil could say to that. He could point out they don't need protection, and listen to Tarvek pretend not to be feel wounded and useless. He could tease Tarvek about his failed attempt to get Agatha's little clanks to8 record sound. He could twist the knife by asking which one of them needed more rescuing, back before Agatha's empire was secure, before she even decided to take it. He could say it goes both ways. All six ways, rather, there's three of them. But none of the things he could say feel quite right. Gil sighs into Tarvek's hair instead, and holds him close as they slowly get their bearings and the last shades of orange vanish in the bleak blue sky. The night will be bitter, the windows will be frost-covered, but Castle Heterodyne never gets worse than _nippy_ in the inhabited rooms. Agatha's bedroom is far from the busy servants' quarters or the perpetual heat of the main kitchen, but even surrounded by disused rooms, it has its gas burner. The proximity alone would keep Tarvek's bedroom warm. Gil would say that's why he picked it, but he could have turned on the gas lines to anywhere in the donjon.

It's thinking like _look out for_ that probably drove Tarvek to take over what Gil thinks was meant for servant's quarters, beside Agatha's bedroom, instead of the implied insult of a comfortable suite down the hall. 

"Hey," Gil says eventually, voice a little husky from sleepiness. "Want to come to bed with us tonight?"

Tarvek's resonse is subdued, made without lifting his head. "I shouldn't. I'd only lie awake all night."

"Maybe, but you'd be warmer. Think of it as practice. I bet you could even get used to my snoring."

"No," Tarvek tells him, so firmly Gil wonders what he's hiding. But his voice softens as he adds, "Thank you for offering, though."

\--

The books are back on the shelves, including the first sixty volumes of Feupierre's _Exhaustive Guide to Inns, Hostelries, and Restaurants of France_ , although Agatha had snapped at the Castle until it had agreed to wall off the book repair studio when it wasn't needed. The Librarians aren't gone, though; they're still rechecking the catalog. Agatha gave her permission to copy it as part of the interlibrary loan agreement, so there's that to finish as well. The net result is that the library is too noisy to concentrate, and Agatha has to take Frau Heliotrope's translation of her ancestor's abominably-handwritten thorn hedge notes to the Unsettlingly Blue Studio. Mittelmind and Snaug are there, having some sort of high-speed discussion that involves Tarvek's coffee machine; Agatha feels no guilt about kicking them out. They barely seem to notice. 

She does like having other Sparks around. As many as one in twelve of their ideas are worthwhile. But she's never fallen into an easy mutual fugue with Mittelmind the way she does with Gil and Tarvek almost every time they're in the lab together. 

There's a copy of _Talk Like A Mechanicsburger In Twelve Easy Lessons_ abandoned on the end table, with a bookmark on Lesson Four, left behind when she was interrupted by the mess in Bad Halstat. Next, Agatha promises herself. After she finishes the notes. If she's going to remodel the entire town for the sake of keeping her university near the library, she's going to do it _properly_. And just from glancing through, it looks like a clever design - triggered by electricity, of course, they're Heterodyne creations, but the signal is based on tiny piezoelectric discs embedded in the wall, and there's a keyed sequence, and _oh_ , this is _lovely_. Yes. She can work with these. Sketchbook, she needs a sketchbook, or the blank pages in back will do, they won't need _any_ fire if they just reconnect a few control circuits o the Castle can suppress things. _Excellent._

It all fits so well, and Agatha is sketching so fast she's almost running off the paper, but there's more than she thought, and somewhere in there the electric lights flick on, and the sudden shift of the shadows is enough that she _notices_ how the shape of the fixed roots is _almost_ a negative-space variant of the steam tunnels, and that means it's not _digging_ , just _tracing_ , yes, where's a pickaxe, she's not going down there without a pickaxe - 

"You're not going down there without a team from Public Works," someone interrupts gently, and plucks the pen out of her hand. "What's seventeen times fifty-eight?" 

"Nine hundred eighty-six," she answers automatically, and blinks a few times as the unexpected thought grinds in the gears of her biological musings. Oh. "Tarvek? Why are you here?" 

"I was looking for my notebook," he informs her, with half a fond smile. "You're not usually the one up at two in the morning." 

"Lost track of time." Well, he's probably right, she can go looking for the root systems in the morning. And once she's found some waterproof boots. "This is fascinating, really, the defenses are a lot more elegant than I expected." 

"Come show it to Gil, then." 

Of course Gil is still awake. And of course, once they've gone through the sketches together, he asks, "How about adding capacitors while you do the construction?" Which won't work, Agatha already thought of that, but it takes a while and several more diagrams to explain why not, and she has to pull out some of the extra paper. But he's convinced there's a workaround, so they raid the desk for some more to actually finish the calculations - Tarvek insists in checking their numbers, as if the numbers won't be whatever they have to - and then stares at the flow layout while they debate their assumptions until he finally cuts in, "What's the impedance of these Zlingli nodules?" 

Gil's eyes light up. " _Variable,_ if we infuse them with formic acid." 

By the time the sunlight slants in her bedroom window they have most of a plan to keep the thorn hedge in stasis while they take down the old wall, _and_ to expand it to the new outer wall without actually waking it up, and Agatha and Tarvek are leaning on each other on the sofa and trying to hide their yawns while Gil waves his hands in the air like he's conducting an invisible orchestra, outlining the size of the project. Agatha smirks at him. "Want to go make sure the drums are still there?" 

"Well, they were there four years ago, or we wouldn't know the thorn hedge existed." Gil folds his arms and looks faintly smug. "After breakfast?" 

"Yes. I want an omelet. And tea." 

"We could all use some tea," Tarvek offers judiciously, although he doesn't seem inclined to move from her shoulder. "This was a good night's work - " a vague nod at the papers spread over the table - "but we can't move _anything_ until May, remember? Please don't say we could do better with Stienmetz's weather engine, we won't have the student body to justify more buildings for a year at least." 

Agatha gently shoves him more or less upright, and stands up so she doesn't give in to the temptation to lean and doze. "What sort of progression are you expecting? We only have so much space in the _outer_ walls, too. And half of that's already used, with ..." She waves her hands, because the concept is big and knobbly. All the extra clerks and accountants and officers and scientists and Questors and minions that come with the machinery of empire, that make Mechanicsburg the _capital_ and not just the place Castle Wulfenbach hovers over most of the time. Everything they'll need to roll the borders out to the Po Valley (by then they'll have the time for children, if they're lucky) and the Ruhr (they'll never have Paris, but they can make alliances) and east to the Urals (if their children, their grandchildren, decide to keep going, because the Tsars of all the available Russias are bitter and spoiling for a fight, if their empire doesn't split into pieces, if they can turn radio and common measures into a sense of belonging to something greater - if, if, if, no use worrying yet) and wherever they're needed. Agatha keeps telling herself that, when she has qualms. Peace through superior firepower still counts as peace. 

"We can always put in a third wall," Gil offers. "Really, as long as the Castle is working properly the whole valley is safe. It's amazingly long-range. Add some guns if you're worried." 

Tarvek frowns, and his next words are a little slower than drowsiness could account for. "Keep doing that, and you'll have a whole _city_ to defend." 

He's not wrong. Mechanicsburg only stayed so small by being so insular, and Agatha thinks those days are dead. 

"Give it twenty years," she tells Tarvek. "Come on, the university was your idea. Are you going to say you didn't think it would keep going?"

"Maybe not in my lifetime. I should have known better." He sighs. "The Heterodynes never build anything small." 

Her boys are looking at each other now, mirrored looks of fond exasperation. It still lifts Agatha's spirits when they do that. All that history, and with the bitterness drawn out, what's left is how well they know each other. 

Then Gil grabs her by the shoulders, and his smile is warmer than it has any right to be at this hour, after a sleepless night, in the middle of a bitter winter. It was a good night's work, though. The best kind of night, ideas folding together like the thousand pieces of a clank engine. "Well, if it does start getting crowded, we'll have plenty of practice building." 

 

\---


End file.
